The Power of Suggestion
by CampbellMay
Summary: Gemma Doyle is seventeen, out of the schoolroom, and struggling to manage a complicated double life. With rumors of a new menace in the Realms and her ardent but oftentimes confusing relationship with Kartik, she struggles to keep her head above water.
1. Roses and Lace

***PLEASE NOTE***

5/17/09 - Just so everyone knows, I started writing this fic way before SFT was released, so it only takes into account the events of AGATB and RA. It's also been a while since I've read any of the books, so if I make mistakes in the more recent updates, please don't hesitate to let me know! This story has kind of taken on a mind of its own, but I really do hope to finish it. Thanks to everyone who has born with me thus far!

* * *

I have heard whispers that I am being hunted. Hunted, not by creatures of the Realms, but by those I had once thought of as my own, as my mentors, as my sisters. Yet the realisation that they are just as hell-bent on the acquisition of power as all the rest has divested me of any sympathy I held for them. How I am supposed to align myself with their cause, if I suspect they will kill me as soon as they are able? It is hopeless, hopeless.

It has cost me, to sever my connection to the Order. They alone know how to use and control the magic. Here I am, a novice at best, holding all the power the Realms has to give without the slightest clue as to its proper use. There are days when the future looks so bleak that I would forfeit anything in exchange for their guidance. I went from mere visitor to sole caretaker of the Realms in less than six months, and I cannot say that I've borne the burden well.  
Kartik kindly offered the heartening comment that at least they will not kill me, not until they have found a way to rebind the magic in their favour. I haven't the foggiest as to their capabilities, so I'm reluctanct to find comfort in this thought.  
And if all of that isn't enough, I am to have my first season this summer. I will be watched like a hawk by my grandmother and every other busybody in London. I am not likely to see Ann ever again, and Felicity only at social functions. It takes all the strength I have not to withdraw and start a new life in the Realms, leaving this mess of an existence behind for good.

* * *

It has been a long, difficult week. Mostly, this is because I have spent the length of it with my grandmother, who has been left in charge of the preperations for my greatly anticipated (by all but me) Debutante Ball, and has been acting put out by it all day. Yet it is I that should be acting put out, as I am the one on the stool, being poked and prodded by an elderly, half-blind seamstress.

The dress I am being fitted for is lovely, and most likely beyond our means, but this does not seem to concern my grandmother, who is beaming fondly at it. It is Italian silk taffeta, with tiny, butter-colored roses embroidered in velvet over the bodice and skirt. The style, cut, and fine white material is in such a palpable mockery of a wedding gown that the corners of my mouth fall in pouting bow of distaste. Marriage is the very farthest thing from my mind at this moment.  
Glancing over my shoulder, I grimace at the way the fabric has been gathered into a revolting double bustle at the back. It's impossible to tell if this is meant to simply hide the shape of my buttocks or to keep me from sitting down. Either way, it's fulfilling its purpose most admirably.  
"I have a similar dress in more of a champagne colour, if you'd prefer, Madam," comments the seamstress blithely, smoothing the fine material over my hips.  
"No, thank you," answers my grandmother. "She is being presented, and besides, the white is lovely. Do you not think so, Gemma?"  
I smile brightly. "Oh, quite lovely. It is the loveliest thing I have ever seen," I answer, in a sweetly light tone that makes my own skin crawl. I must appear be quite the young lady, and I cannot say that it has been a simple thing to keep up the illusion.  
"Yes, I agree. It'll do quite nicely, I think. Mrs. McFarley, if you'd be kind enough to have the alterations completed by the week's end? For now, we are due back at home. I'm expecting a social call."  
"Oh?" I say, trying to sound neutral. Truth be told, I'd be grateful for some human company, since Felicity is on holiday in Paris for another week, and Ann has taken a position with a family in Brighton for the summer. She says it is only temporary, so that she can save up some money, but none of us really believe this. She may have accepted her fate as a governes, yes; but at least she did it in her own manner, instead of dooming herself into the employment of her unpleasant cousins. Yet I've not heard from either of them in two weeks, and I, forced to bounce back and forth between my brother and grandmother, am in very real danger of losing my mind.  
"You know, it's the oddest thing, really," says Grandmama as the seamstress helps me out of the dress, cradling it in her arms as she carries it to the back of the shop. "I got a letter from her two weeks ago, entirely unsolicited. Not that I was not delighted to hear from her – she is my brother's only granddaughter, the Lady Lenora Courtenay –"  
"Lady?" I interrupt in surprise, before I can stop myself.  
Grandmother frowns at me, but makes no further comment. "Yes, indeed. Her father is the Earl of Devon."  
Well, that explains why Grandmama is in such a rush to get home. I, on the other hand, am dissatisfied – the meagre fact that her father is a member of the Peerage promises her to be either frightfully dull or frightfully snobbish.  
"She heard, somehow, that you were to have your first season, and has offered to be your chaperone," says my grandmother, positively glowing with delight.  
I, in contrast, feel my body grow suddenly heavy, as if pulled down at the wrists and neck by lead balls. This is nearly as crushing as the idea that Grandmama or Tom shall be in charge of breathing down my neck at balls and social calls.  
"My chaperone?" I ask, maintaining a mild tone of voice.  
"Yes. She is a young woman, unmarried herself, so I am sure you will find her company much more agreeable than mine."  
In other words, Grandmama is hoping Lady Courtenay will rub off on me.  
When I appear unimpressed, she changes tacts. "But she is newly one-and-twenty, and rumour has it that she has already refused two proposals of marriage. Both of them fine matches, I hear. Nevertheless, she is a most respectable young lady. We musn't think ill of her for being selective."  
If I let my grandmother fire up her gossip, there will be no end in sight, and I shall certainly lose my clinging semblance of sanity.  
"She must have had two seasons already," I comment mildly, trying to maintain the focus of the conversation. After all, it is most unusual for the daughter of an Earl to go so long without finding a suitable match, and I wonder if there is something more to this cousin than I have given her credit for.  
"Oh, yes, most assuredly. Before he died, I remember my brother writing to me about her, and what an opinionated child she was. I expect it's carried on into adulthood," says Grandmama fondly, convinced of Lady Courtenay's gentility.  
I give a quiet sigh of disappointment. If only Grandmama had said 'headstrong' or even 'picky' – but the sugary 'opinionated' makes the girl sound spoilt and contrary, and I find myself again longing for my friends. I haven't even been away from Spence for a month, and yet even the chance of bumping into Elizabeth Poole at her mother's garden party this Sunday isn't entirely depressing.  
I sigh softly in resignation, knowing that I shall have to learn to cope with people like Lady Courtenay if I am ever to be a competent wife and hostess. It's just as well that I start learning now.  
I have managed to forget myself for a moment, and remembrance returns with bitter profundity.  
Oh, who am I trying to fool? Even if I ever am a wife, I will never be able to spare the time or attention required to be a proper hostess. Without a mentor, I must learn to use my power by trial and error, left to keep peace and prosperity in a world that is not my own. If I am to ever have help, or allies, I will have to seek out my own and teach them myself.  
The task is too much for me to think of right now. I long for the mindless frivolity of maintaining reputations and husband-hunting. I would give anything to go to a ball and be frantic with worry about tripping over my train rather than whether the suspicious-looking man in the corner is a member of the Rakshana, sent to punish Kartik for his disloyalty.  
I sigh. It's useless to long for such things; I am in far too deep to change my circumstances now. It is like Kartik says; a person must accept the fate she is born to, or waste her life wishing. I will not be that girl. There is one place to go now, and that is forward.


	2. Lady Lenora Courtenay

Lady Lenora Courtenay is either exactly what I expected, or the complete opposite. I cannot explain this, but it's true nonetheless. She is lovely, as I knew she would be, her face sweet and open. It's the sort of face that can hide all kinds of evils. Her honey-coloured curls are arranged with elegant simplicity, pinned against the crown of her head and adorned with a fine jeweled comb.

And yet. I can't help but notice how every time I start to form an opinion of her, it is somehow interrupted. Like the way her strange golden eyes interrupt her otherwise predictable face, and there is a sudden ferocity to her that I do not expect.

Then, when I am thinking of how tastefully accessorized she is, I notice the shabby band of tarnished silver on her right ring finger. It seems so very out of place that I feel pressed to inquire about it, but picturing Grandmama's reaction, I hold my tongue.

"So, Miss Doyle. I hear you've just left Spence," comments Lady Courtenay, holding her untouched cup of tea steady in her lap. Her voice is another surprise – instead of light and flutish, as I've anticipated, it is smoky and sonorous, with a distinct Scottish touch to it. This is most assuredly odd, since Devonshire is on the complete opposite end of the island. I can't help but be intrigued, despite Lady Courtenay's pointless comment.

"Yes, I have," I respond politely. "Not three weeks ago."

"I see," she replies. "And did you find it to be an agreeable school?"

Oh yes, Lady Courtenay. It was most particularly conducive to wreaking havoc and dabbling in the occult. And I did learn a thing or two about etiquette, I am sure.

"Most agreeable," I say instead, giving her a muted smile. "I will surely miss it."

"Mmm, yes, I miss my schooldays as well. They are simpler, wouldn't you say so?"

"Quite," I agree, sipping my tea. The liquid scalds my tongue, and I realise why both Lady Courtenay and Grandmama have left theirs untouched.

Truth be told, I haven't thought of the simplicity of Spence, but she's right; it is simpler to be "in the schoolroom" and unmarriageable. How am I to reorganise the Realms and satisfy the demands of society at the same time? That familiar feeling of being in over my head washes over me, and I bite my cheek to hold back the little whimper of dismay threatening to break from me.

When I clue back into the conversation naught but a moment later, Grandmama is telling Lady Courtenay how much she resembles her grandfather.

"He had freckles just like that when he was a boy. I do miss him, so."

"As do I, aunt. He was such a lovely man," replies Lady Courtenay. I wince at the lack of emotion in her voice, but Grandmama does not seem to notice.

"That he was," she agrees, mindlessly stirring her tea.

There is a pause of silence, and I use the opportunity to change the subject, keen to find out more about our strange visitor.

"I must tell you how grateful I am for you, Lady Courtenay. It was most kind of you to volunteer yourself for something so dull as chaperoning a debutante."

Lady Courtenay smiles indulgently and gives me a little wink. "Oh, I do not think it will be so dull as you expect. I do love imposing on the hospitality of rich ladies. And it's always a laugh to frighten off the less favourable young men. Say, do you have any admirers, Miss Doyle?"

I am caught off guard by the comment, and find myself thinking of Kartik. I laugh bitterly to myself, at the look Lady Courtenay would surely have on her face if I introduced her to Kartik and asked her to accompany us on a walk in the park.

The mental picture of walking through the park with Kartik, dressed in a fine suit with a top hat perched upon his soft black curls, makes me want to both laugh and gasp with longing. This is how it would be, if what was between him and I was normal. But it is not normal, and it will never be. That is, if we ever got around to admitting that there is anything there in the first place. This thought makes me sigh out loud.

It seems I have been silent for too long, for Grandmama is answering the question for me.

"-Yes, their son Simon was enchanted with our Gemma for a time, before she turned him down."

I was aware that Grandmama had been upset with me for refusing Simon's affections; but the unhappy tone she says this with proves that she has not quite got over it. I, too, still feel a pang of regret when thinking of Simon, even though I know I made the right decision in the matter. Unfortunately, no one else can fathom what reasons I might have to turn down such a charming and elegant young gentleman.

"I am curious," says Lady Courtenay, watching me with her peculiar golden eyes, "What was it you found undesirable about Mr. Middleton?"

"He – " I pause. There is nothing wrong with Simon, I want to say. There is only something wrong with me. "I found him to be trite, I suppose. And a bit too fond of his gossip."

The idea of Simon Middleton as trite is laughable, but it seems to satisfy Lady Courtenay.

"He also has a bit of a reputation, if you take my meaning," she grins slyly and winks, as if she has said something terribly wicked. "I think it was wise and quite mature of you to recognize Mr. Middleton's faults and end it, before things got serious."

"Thank you," I say simply, unsure of how to accept this flattery.

"Well," Grandmama says, catching the lull in the conversation. "I am sure you'd like to settle in and rest from your journey. I believe your things have been brought upstairs. Emily?" she calls out into the hall. Emily appears at the door, giving a small curtsy to Lady Courtenay.

"Please escort Lady Courtenay to her quarters, if you will, and make sure she has whatever she needs?"

Emily nods. "Yes, mum. Right this way, milady."

"It was a pleasure to meet you Miss Doyle. I'm sure we will be great friends in no time."

"Yes, most certainly," I reply, though I sincerely doubt it. It is not only that Lady Courtenay is rich, noble, and on the dull side, but I feel just the tiniest bit uneasy about her. I cannot tell if it is simply my hypersensitivity to strangers, now that both the Order and the Rakshana have become unfriendly, or something more sinister. Either way, I do not think I'll be warming up to her quickly.

Left alone in the sitting room, I wonder if I ought to do anything. Under normal circumstances, I would find Felicity and Ann, who would stay my worries with joking and daring comments about Lady Courtenay's virtue, and all would be well. Now, nobody is close by, except…except for Kartik! Gemma, you dolt.

I hastily leave a note for my grandmother, explaining that I'd left one of my jeweled hairpins behind at the dress shop, and that I'd brought one of the maids with me to fetch it. Grandmama will be cross that I did not ask her for permission, but not very.

I hurry into the kitchen to find Catherine, one of the young maids that I am on somewhat good terms with, who agrees to escort me.

We step outside, where it is warm and cheerful with the onset of summer. The air smells wet, and I inhale deeply, suddenly in a good humour. I am going to see Kartik, dear, darling Kartik, who will make me laugh and feel foolish and forget all about the peculiar Lady Courtenay.

"Shall I fetch the carriage, miss?" Catherine asks.

"No," I answer cheerily. "It is a fine day for walking."

I have to use a tiny bit of magic to find Kartik, who is having his lunch in a pub not three blocks away from Grandmama's house. Since he began work as a hackie, it's become increasingly difficult to find him, and as a result, we don't see each other as often. I like to think this is a good thing; despite the fact that we have long since made peace, there is still a tension between us that makes him difficult to talk to at times.

Catherine is reluctant to go into the pub. "Your grandmother would have me hide if she knew I let you go into a place like that!"

I am not in the mood to squabble with her. "Are you planning to tell her?"

"And lose me job? You're barking!" she replies, looking around nervously.

"Well, _I_ don't plan on telling her either. Here, if it makes you feel better, wait here and I'll just give you the slip," I say, as if this is not what I've planned to do all along.

Before she can protest, I am through the door of the pub and out of sight. It is not such a disreputable place, though it's true that there are no young ladies inside. But there is also no one that I know, so I let my eyes wander until they find Kartik, sitting by himself at a table and picking meat off of a chicken bone with his fingers.

"I daresay, Mr. Kartik, you have the table manners of a dog," I say good-naturedly, taking a seat across the table from him. He is looking well turned-out in his grey woolen trousers, coarse linen shirt, and smart black suspenders, though I must admit I miss his cloak a little.

"Ah, Miss Doyle, you are too kind," he replies smoothly, though his raised eyebrows indicate that he is a little shocked to see me. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"To the Lady Lenora Courtenay, my cousin and new chaperone. She's the daughter of an Earl, you know," I inform him with a little swagger, feigning pomposity.

He chuckles, the sound muffled by his napkin as he wipes his mouth. "She sounds frightfully fascinating, though I can't imagine why she would send you to find _me_."

I let out the disgruntled sigh I've been holding all morning and boldly reach across the table to take a sip of Kartik's drink. It's whiskey, and I cough as it burns all the way down. I suppose it serves me right. Kartik's eyebrows rise higher, and I can tell that I've shocked him.

"Forgive me," I sigh, feeling heat creep into my face. "I'm in a terrible humour."

He laughs, his smile reaching his eyes. "You are certainly full of surprises, Miss Doyle. But please, tell me about your Lady Courtenay."

I sober a little, trying to think of how to explain her to Kartik without sounding paranoid.

"I suppose it's really nothing. She's odd, is all. I don't honestly think she's in league with our enemies, but I thought I ought to tell you, even if I'm only imagining things," I say dismissively, glancing over my fingernails and pretending to examine them for dirt. When Kartik doesn't respond immediately, I glance over at him. His face is pensive, and he begins to tap the chicken bone against his plate.

"Is there anything explicit about her that troubles you?" he asks calmly, though I can see the concern in his gathered brows.

I shake my head, trying in vain to pinpoint the source of my ill feelings towards my cousin. "Not precisely, no. There's nothing out of place about her that I can see, but I still –" I stop, brushing a wisp of hair out of my eyes. I shouldn't have come, Kartik must think me a total fool.

"You musn't mistrust your instincts, Miss Doyle, not now when we can't possibly be too careful," he reassures me, as if reading my mind. "I will find out what I can about her Ladyship. In the meantime, be on your guard, will you?"

I nod in assent, wanting to ask who his sources are; after all, we're supposed to be in this together. Since I know he is no longer receiving information from the Rakshana, he must have alternate informants, and the fact that I have not been introduced to them worries me as well.

After a moments silence I realise that his is not the response I wanted from him. "Just a moment. Are you saying she really could be dangerous?"

"I really couldn't say," he says thoughtfully, crumpling his napkin between his hands. "Again, we really cannot be too careful."

He is right, of course. "I would have rather you laughed and called me silly."

He laughs. "Silly," he chides.

I roll my eyes with a complete lack of gentility. He tips the last of his whiskey into his mouth, and we simply watch each other for a moment.

"Kartik," I say softly, fiddling with the hem of my sleeve so as not to meet his eyes.

"Hmm?" he responds, inspecting his chicken bone for any meat he may have missed.

I try to think of the best way to say what I want to say without offending him. "I trust you've been getting on well?"

He raises an eyebrow at me, but shrugs casually. "Yes, thank you."

"Because – what I mean to say is – if you ever need something, you will ask me, won't you?"

I suppose it makes me feel a little better, when I can try to take care of someone else. Especially Kartik, who simply will _not_ be taken care of.

I can tell by the slightly exasperated look on his face that he's seen right through my offhand change of subject.

"I thank you for your concern, Miss Doyle, but I am perfectly all right at the present." His tone does not invite further discussion. I nod quickly, happy to let it slide.

I am glad for the interruption when I catch sight of Catherine at the door, looking for me.

"I have to go," I say quickly, standing up slowly so as not to draw her attention. "Let me know if – "

"Yes. Go," Kartik interrupts, gesturing towards the door.

Thankfully, Catherine does not ask questions. It's one of the things I like about her. We stroll home in silence, leaving me to worry much more than I had to begin with.


	3. Grudges

I am a little surprised when I am not accosted by Grandmama the moment I walk through the door. With any luck, perhaps she has not found me missing yet. I glance hopefully at the table where I left the note, my shoulders slumping when I find it empty.

But I am more surprised when I enter my bedroom to find Lady Courtenay sitting in one of the plush wingchairs by the window, perusing a copy of _Great Expectations_ that was given to me by Tom for my seventeenth birthday. I suddenly feel most intruded upon.

"Lady Courtenay," I greet her cautiously. "What a lovely surprise."

She meets my gaze and suddenly I am able to identify the source of that creeping feeling seems to cling to her. It is her eyes, to be certain, but not only their colour. A childhood memory springs into my mind of a time when Father took Tom and me to a festival back in India. One of the entertainers there was leading a tiger on a leash like a pet, offering money to whomever could win a staring contest against the beast. When it was my turn, it was the look in the tiger's eyes, rather than the need to blink, that lost me eight shillings.

Now, I see the same look in Lady Courtenay's eyes: the look had by a creature that dominates the food chain. It is a whorl of quiet confidence, a wildness held in check, and the promise that, if she wished it, she could snap my neck with a single bite.

"Please, you must call me Lenora. Forgive me for trespassing, but I wished to speak with you," she says pleasantly, her feral eyes softened and no longer disturbing. I suddenly wonder if she's preparing to scold me for sneaking out. Between Papa, Tom, and Grandmama, the very last thing I need is another parent.

"It's quite all right. What was it you wished to speak with me about?" I ask, struggling to remain amiable.

Her mischievous smile suddenly makes her look many years younger. "I only wished to apologise profusely for how dreadfully lacklustre I was acting earlier this afternoon. I thought I might assure you that we need not be hardly so formal in private. I know from experience that there's nothing better to ruin your first season than a dull chaperone. While I do have a certain responsibility towards your grandmother, I wanted to let you know that I don't intend to make your life a misery."

I did not expect this, but it does relax me a little. "Oh," I reply. "Well. Thank you."

She smiles, as if she knows all my secrets. "Never fear, Miss Doyle. I am not foolish enough to expect us to be immediate friends. But as a start, know that you are most welcome to confide in me. I promise you that I am not easy to shock." She returns the book to its place atop the bureau and starts for the door. "You know where you'll find me," she adds, before walking into the hallway and closing the door gently behind her.

I fall into the now-vacant wingchair with very little grace, setting my teeth into my lower lip. Oh, how I would love to be innocent enough to believe that Lady Courtenay – that is, Lenora – would be my true friend. Someone to take into the Realms because I choose to, not because she refuses to speak to me until I do. Someone I can say anything to, even my most private thoughts about Kartik, without being teased or scolded or embarassed. A person who is my friend because she enjoys my company, not because I am a source of power, not because she has nowhere else to go.

I laugh to myself. Even though Lady Courtenay claims she is hard to shock, I am sure it would take me mere moments to send her packing.

A soft tap at my door interrupts my thoughts, and I sit up straight. "Come in."

It is Emily, holding a letter sealed by a mark I recognize at once. "A letter for you, miss."

I thank her, and wait until she is gone to open the note. I do not need to see Kartik's handwriting to know whom it's from.

_Miss Doyle –_

_If you are able, please meet me in your stable yard as soon as your household is asleep. I have news._

I frown at the note. The last thing I want to be doing in the middle of the night is slogging around in the filthy stable yard, but it looks as if I don't have much choice. I tear the letter and toss it into the wastebin, my brow pinched as I brood.

By the time I am able to meet Kartik, it is well past midnight. The stable yard is empty, but for the horses, who nicker softly to one another in the dark. I let my eyes adjust to the feeble moonlight, stepping carefully across the soft ground towards the stable.

"Kartik?" I whisper once I've stepped inside, checking our empty stall for him. I am greeted by the oddly comforting aroma of worn leather, musty hay, and horse, which relaxes me a little. The horses have fallen silent at the sound of my voice, listening, and I coo soothingly to them; if they start to make a fuss, I'm done for.

I walk towards the side of the barn where the carriages are kept, looking in the corners and between the wheels before I call out to him again. "Kartik! Where in blazes are you?"

One of the doors creaks open, and I jump backwards in surprise. Kartik's hand slips out from the darkness, beckoning me forth with a crooked finger. Grumbling to myself, I climb inside with him, blinded by the total darkness that falls when he closes the door behind me. There is something wrong with the smell inside, a hot tang that dominates the regular barn smells, and I wrinkle my nose in distaste. Good of Kartik, to pick the carriage that stinks.

"I see you managed to get out," jibes Kartik, his voice husky. I scowl.

"I can't see a thing," I complain, waving my hand in front of my face as if to prove it. "Let's go outside."

"No," hisses Kartik in his business tone. "I do not feel comfortable standing out in the open."

I can understand why. The Rakshana's grudge has set them like snarling foxhounds on Kartik's scent ever since his betrayal last Christmas. I suspect that it hurts Kartik, to be wished dead by the only family he has ever known, so I do not prod him. Especially because I am to blame for his leaving in the first place.

"You said you had news," I prod. "Did you find anything out about Lady Courtenay?"

"No," he says, to my disappointment. "I have been found."

It takes me a moment to realise what he means. "Found," I repeat, without comprehension.

"Yes," says Kartik, his voice low and urgent. "One of the Rakshana was lying in wait for me when I arrived home this evening. I still do not know how it is that I am not dead."

I inhale, revisiting the odd trace of silver in the air, and realise what is making the coach smell wrong.

"You're hurt!" I gasp, clutching in the dark for his hands. I find them, clenched into fists in his lap, and cover them lightly with my fingers. Suddenly frantic with worry, I hardly feel him stiffen at my touch. "Where?" I ask, trying not to panic.

"My neck," he answers, and I know now that the huskiness in his voice is from the pain. "To be sure, he meant to cut my throat, but I was able to change my position enough to – ouch!"

I have moved to his side of the coach, feeling my way up his arm and shoulder to his neck, where my fingers meet a place just below his ear where the skin has been cleaved neatly apart. Hot blood coats my fingertips, and I cough quickly to mask my gag.

"Kartik, you must – we must – " I swallow, trying to think of what to do. "You need to see a doctor!"

"_No_," he hisses, forcefully enough to send a wave of hot, sweet-smelling breath over my face. I have the ridiculous thought then, that he's been eating pomegranate seeds. I shake my head in disbelief at myself and persist.

"Then you must at least come inside and allow me to dress it. If it were to get infected – "

"Yes, yes, all right," Kartik interrupts quickly, opening the door to the coach. I bite my lip in sympathy as I catch sight of his neck in the moonlight, but am glad to see that, despite the size of the wound and the large amount of blood, it isn't very deep.

"I shall wait in the empty stall," he whispers, gesturing to it. "Be quick."

With that, I am off, creeping around to the back door and slipping into the dark kitchen as quietly as possible. I rack my racing mind, trying to think of what in heaven's name I'm going to use to clean the cut. Iodine would be ideal, but I haven't the foggiest as to where Mrs. Jones keeps the medical supplies. Desperate, I snatch a near-empty bottle of whiskey from the liquor cabinet, as well as a handful of clean dishrags from the laundry pile, and hurry back outside to Kartik.

Seeing the bottle of whiskey and realising immediately what I intend, he begins to back away from me, hands raised defensively in front of his chest. "And just what," he croaks, glaring at me, "do you plan to do with that whiskey?"

"Have a few sips first, if you're afraid it will hurt," I goad him, holding the bottle by the neck and shaking it tauntingly at him. He straightens, suddenly aware that he's in danger of lettting a bit of weakness slip out from his façade of perpetual strength.

"Get it over with, then," he sighs raggedly, pulling his curls out of the way to bare the wound and leaning forward to grip the empty stall door. It's a tiny sign of his faith in me, like a dog exposing its belly in the presence of safety, and it makes me smile despite myself. I soak one of the rags with whiskey and squeeze it over his neck so that it hits the wound in small, quick drips. It fizzes a bit when it makes contact, and I hear Kartik gasp as if the wind has been knocked out of him.

"Sorry. Is it bad?" I ask softly, dabbing gently until all the blood is gone from his skin.

He doesn't answer, and I realise that he's been biting down hard on one of the rags. I wince with pity; if I had known it would hurt that much, I would tried harder to find the iodine. I instinctively blow on the newly cleaned wound, hoping to ease his pain a little. He relaxes some, taking the rag from between his teeth.

"Not so bad," he reassures me in an unsteady voice. I can see the muscles in his arms flexing as he grips the stable door in the effort to distract himself from the bite of the alcohol.

I smile faintly in response, taking the rag from his hands and tying it in a makeshift bandage around his neck.

"I don't suppose this was your news?" I ask, hoping to take his mind off the sting.

"It is the cause for my news. I've made arrangements to disappear for a while until the Rakshana lose my scent. I merely wished to say good-bye."

I am stunned. But there is so much to be done! He cannot leave. He _cannot_. I say as much aloud.

"I can, and I must," he says gently, placing a steadying hand on my shoulder. "Surely you realise that I am of no use to you dead."

I feel cool resentment course through me, though I know I am being childish. Of course he must leave, of course he must. I remain silent until I am calm. "When will you return?" I ask, feeling a tight pressure bearing down on my breastbone. Even though he hasn't left yet, I feel exposed, vulnerable, and alone.

"I never said I was going anywhere in the first place," he explains, in the same gentle tone I've heard him use to soothe the horses. "Only that I will not be reachable, save when I initiate the contact."

I nod, comforted a little. After all, I will have no immediate need of Kartik, especially once Felicity returns home. Perhaps when he comes back, we will have forgotten the rigidity that remains between us. This is indeed a heartening thought.

"I shall speak with you soon," he assures me with a brave smile. For a moment, he reaches out as if to touch my hand, then stops, compensating for the aborted gesture by patting his bandaged neck. "And thank you, for the doctoring."

I nod, and he is gone. I fix my eyes on the darkness that he has disappeared into, lost in thought. I know that Kartik is not for me. He is homeless, penniless, and yes, Indian. He is also a marked man, which hardly improves matters. _Not for me. Not for me. Not for me._ I repeat it out loud in a whisper, as if repetition will cure me. _Not for me_. I know this, and yet I cannot help wishing the foolish wish that he was mine.


	4. It's Only Make Believe

I sit on my bed in my bedclothes, remembering a time when Felicity and Ann would have been furious with me for going to the Realms without them. Things are different now, now that we live daily in this world called Reality. It's a nasty business, growing up.

I need the comfort of the Realms right now. I need a few moments of safety, wrapped in the damp green beauty of the Garden, even if I must be alone. I fall backwards onto the bed, fingers tangled in my disorderly curls.

And yet, the Realms are no longer the glimmering escape that they once were. I am wary of the evil that still lurks there, Circe or no, and it quickens my pulse to imagine being there, all by myself. I feel like a child who has been thrown off her pony one too many times and has lost the courage to hop right back on.

I struggle to stiffen my resolve, rubbing my tired eyes until glowing spots obscure my vision. I realise, now, that I am truly alone in this endeavour. I alone am married to the fate of the Realms, by my mother and by the magic that now resides in me.

I have the sudden remarkable thought that I might have easily healed Kartik with the magic, saving us both a lot of pain and trouble. I feel ridiculous. Does he know this? I shake my head, wondering if I'll ever be able to think of this power as a tool, as something I have the right to use. Instead I feel as if I've walked out of a shop with a bag of sweets that I've forgotten to pay for; to use the magic for my own personal requirements without paying some sort of price makes me feel like a thief.

I have the uncharitable thought that now, when I truly have need of her, my mother has left me. I find myself longing for _any_ human soul with even an ounce of knowledge relating to the magic or the Realms, for it would be an ounce more than I have. I hate being the only one with power, I hate it. What use is it to me if I'm at a complete loss as to what I'm supposed to do with it?

I shake my head as if to clear it, sliding onto the bed until I can fit my legs onto the mattress with the rest of me. I will go into the Realms, if only to prove that I can do it alone.

The door of light appears, easy as you please, and I am through it, allowed to leave my cares behind, if only for a little while. I step into the Garden, breathing in the fresh air, perfumed with my childhood. But it is all different now. Instead of being comforted, I am put on my guard, sure that the pleasing smells are lures, seductions. I am _meant_ to feel safe here; that does not mean that I am. The Garden is suddenly no longer the Garden at all, but a lurking beast, waiting to gobble me up the moment I lower my defences.

The paranoia almost takes control of me until I force it to stop, breathing deeply, reassuring myself. _You_ have the power here, Gemma. Whatever wretched magic can be gained from stolen blood pales in comparison to what dwells inside you. Yes. I am safe here, for now.

I take a seat on a boulder, thinking wistfully of how terribly quiet it is in the Garden without the delighted squeals and laughter of my friends. I spot a little blue thrush perched on a nearby branch, his feathers so brilliantly blue I almost mistake him for a flower.

"Will you come and say hello, little bluebird?" I call to him cheerfully, extending my index finger for him. To my surprise, he does, alighting onto my finger and ticking his head to the side, as if to get a better look at me.

Feeling bold, I concentrate on an image of Kartik, wondering if I could possibly conjure a real person here. I am disappointed only for a moment when the bird takes flight, only inches into the air when suddenly he is gone, replaced by a tall young man with curly dark hair and the loveliest mouth I have ever seen.

"Kartik," I greet him, a little breathless. Our eyes meet, and I know immediately by the flatness in his gaze that he is not Kartik at all, but an illusion, like everything in the Garden. I am urged to say and do all the things to him that I cannot to the real Kartik, but I find that I am far too cowardly.

"What a lovely surprise," I say, wondering if the Kartik mirage has the ability to speak in the first place.

"Indeed," he replies, his voice an almost perfect replica of the real thing. "It is more beautiful here than I ever dreamed."

It is certainly peculiar, to see Kartik copied down to the last follicle, to hear him imitated so closely. I _should_ be more guarded, but I am so used to trusting him by default that it's difficult to maintain my suspicions.

I suddenly realise that he is gazing at me, quite unrestrainedly indeed.

"What is it?" I ask, suddenly shy.

"You are very beautiful."

It is such an unKartik-like thing to say that I give an inelegant snort of laughter before I can catch it. He gives a subdued smile, the sort given by someone who has been left out of a joke but wants to look amused anyhow.

"You do not believe me?"

"No, no, it's not that. Forgive me. You just…surprised me."

I realise that the magic must have snatched some sort of fantasy that I have left tucked away in the deep corners of my mind. Distorted from the original, of course, as I am hardly so innocent as to imagine Kartik saying _anything_ like that, even in my own head. It's a little disturbing, that it knows my thoughts – but it is _my_ magic, after all.

"Gemma. Will you dance with me?" he asks, his smile now warm and captivating. How odd it is to hear him call me by my Christian name – but I like it. I am a little reluctant about the dancing, as I have a feeling that the Kartik illusion is pulling on a certain memory that I don't necessarily care to dwell on at the moment.

"I will," I answer, allowing myself to relax just a little bit. There are no consequences, here in the Realms, for doing what I wish. Kartik takes me first by the waist but pulls me close without hesitation, so close that I can smell the fragrance of spice, lye, and leather mingling on his skin. I notice he is dressed like a gentleman, but he does not look comical, as I've imagined. Not comical in the least.

"I say, Mr. Kartik. You look so very handsome in that suit," I comment, doing my best to maintain a light tone. He is holding me so close that I am forced to speak into his neck.

"Thank you," is his answer. That's illusion for you, I suppose. Magic can fool the senses, but little else. I smile freely and imagine what the real Kartik would say to that.

_"Oh, you think so, do you? You know, it makes me want to order someone about. You there! Fetch me your finest port!"_

Perhaps he would look back at me, laughter in his eyes, unable to resist that final comment.

_"I suppose fine clothes such as these could make a girl forget completely that I am Indian!"_

He would say this in jest, of course, as if it is now some sort of private joke between us. Yet I would know that it is meant for me, a veiled strike that tells me he still has not forgiven me, even if he himself thinks otherwise. We have only had one or two conversations that have ended like this in the months since I so gracelessly insulted him after he tried to…after he kissed me. But they were enough to ruin my humour for the rest of the day.

I reluctantly admit to myself that it is the kiss, not my insult, that is the true source of the tension. We have spent months trying to pretend that it never happened, that we never crossed that line. Oh, what have I done? Kartik, my stronghold, who would rather go into battle unarmed than show any real feelings. But that's what he did, when he kissed me, and not only did I reject him, but I was cruel to him. I might as well have taken a knife to him, for good measure.

Well done, Gemma. You've made a right mess of things, and you've hardly amended for any of it.

"You mustn't feel so guilty," says Kartik the Illusion, pulling back just far enough to touch my cheek. "I know you didn't mean what you said. I forgave you long ago."

"No," I reply, wishing to God that I could hear the real Kartik say those words to me. "I – I was so very unkind to you – "

"Hush," he says, suddenly sounding a bit too British. "It has been forgotten."

No, it hasn't. But it is so good to hear.

"Will you allow me another chance?" says pretend Kartik, boldly intertwining our fingers. I don't know what he means, until his mouth is on mine, and most of my rational thinking is lost in the softness of his mouth, the warmth of his body, and roaring of blood in my ears.

_Mustn't. Can't. This isn't real, he isn't real. Not for me. Not for me. Not for me!_

His tongue touches my lip, soft as a whisper, and I am lost, melting into him, tired of fighting it, tired of fighting _him_. He is the forbidden fruit, and I have no will to resist him any longer. At least, not here in the Garden, where there are no penalties for my actions.

It is the feeling of wretchedness that makes me finally break away. I am pathetic, using my power to play with shadows in the Realms because I am too cowardly to face my reality. I wonder, not for the first time, whose bright idea it was to give me charge over this world; all I've done is exploit it.

Make-believe Kartik is watching me, as if waiting for me to get a hold of myself. He looks suddenly impatient, and I half expect him call me something unkind. It is a cold reminder of how easily I could be seduced to my ruin by a creature of the Realms. I give a tiny shiver at this.

"I must go," I say gently, stepping away. His face falls, and he looks so full of despair that I want to run to him and promise him I'll never leave. In fact, that's probably exactly what he means me to do.

"Don't leave me," he begs. I wince – it hurts to hear Kartik, even the illusion of him, do something so shameful as begging. This only makes it easier for me to take another step back when he says, "Gemma, you're all I have!"

When he sees he is losing me, he steps forward, looking as if he's barely kept himself from lunging at me. "I have no one else! You robbed me of my place in the Rakshana, of my place in my family, and now you too will abandon me?"

"You aren't him! You aren't! Leave me alone!" I cry with fear and anger, feeling the familiar twinge of guilt tug at me. With a gentle rustle, Kartik is gone, replaced by the little blue thrush, who flies into the safety of the treetops.

Just as suddenly, I find myself back in my bed, a sleepy haze dulling my senses. As I steady my breath, I blink as a feeling of immense relief washes over me. Just a dream, Gemma. Only a dream. Your mind is playing tricks on you again.

I am comforted to know that it didn't _truly_ happen, that I didn't _truly_ conjure Kartik in the Realms, that I didn't _truly_ give into that illicit desire. Yet the fact that I wanted to, that I still want to, is enough to keep me tossing and turning until sunrise.


	5. Secrets

AN: Thanks to everyone for the encouraging reviews! They always brighten my day. And thanks for bearing with me as I figure out what to do about a plot…that's always the fun part, right?

The smooth grey of morning is all it takes to pull me from my restless sleep, and try as I will, I cannot reclaim it. I untangle myself from the bed linens and glare at my reflection in the vanity mirror, wrinkling my nose at the tousled girl that glares back.

As if on cue, Mrs. Jones bustles into my room; I suppose Grandama has sent her to get me up.

"Oh, miss, you're already awake. Mrs. Doyle says I'm to get you dressed, and then you're to take a bit of breakfast to the Lady," announces Mrs. Jones. I blink sleepily as she begins to rummage through my wardrobe.

"This'll do nicely, I think," she comments, pulling a frock free. "Green as spring, it is. Like your eyes, darlin'."

I allow Mrs. Jones to wrestle the snarls from my sleep-tossed hair without murmur, though I feel as if my scalp will split; I never had got around to braiding it last night. When at last it has been brought under control, Mrs. Jones has me out of my old chemise and into a clean one before my skin can even register the chilly air. It is only moments before I have been made presentable, and, as I do every morning, I thank heavens for Mrs. Jones.

"I've done what I can. Now it's off to the kitchens with you," she shoos me, going to straighten the bed. I travel down to the kitchen where I find Catherine ready for me with a tray, loaded with two plates of food and two cups of tea. I am glad they have remembered to feed me as well.

I am rather taken aback to find Lenora still in her dressing gown as we walk into the room. Her golden hair is set into a coil that is gathered tidily at the nape of her neck, and I conclude that she must sleep standing up.

"Good morning, La – Lenora." It feels a little too informal to use her Christian name, though I know she can't be more than two or three years my senior. "I trust you slept well?"

"Quite well, thank you." She falls silent until Catherine is gone, and we are alone.

"You grew up in India, your grandmother tells me," she comments, spooning a delicate bite of egg into her mouth as if it were caviar.

After all of the small talk we've been doing, I am thrown off by this more direct approach at conversation.

"Yes. Until – " I am about to say 'Until my mother died,' but I can't seem to bring the words to my tongue. "Until I was sixteen," I recover quickly, stirring a lump of sugar into my tea.

"It is a beautiful country."

"You've been?" I ask pleasantly, mildly surprised that she's ever left England at all.

"Oh, yes. My mother's father is in spice trade, and makes several runs to Bombay each year. I was allowed to accompany him one time, though I can't say I'm the most seaworthy girl to be had."

"No, I don't much like boats myself," I reply mildly.

We eat for a moment in silence, until Lenora gets up to fetch a lovely blue gown and undergarments from the wardrobe, holding up the corset to me.

"Since I have you trapped here," she says, smiling good-naturedly, "would you mind terribly?"

"Not at all," I reply, glad for the distraction. I help her pull it into place and take hold of the laces, noticing with the first tug how remarkably light the boning is. I shall have to try and coax Grandmama into buying me one – I expect it could save a girl a good deal of pain.

"All right, I've got it," says Lenora, her voice slightly pinched by my second tug. "Yes, that's good right there, thank you," she adds, putting her hand to her abdomen and taking an experimental breath. I help her on with her petticoats as she continues. "We must share a secret, you and I. Secrets always help to start a bond, wouldn't you agree?"

I think of the secret that brought Felicity and I together, and smile bitterly to myself. I cannot decide if I like the thought that our friendship is based on little more than blackmail and magic.

"Well, yes, I'd say so," I agree, though I'm not exactly sure why this woman is so anxious to be my friend.

"Shall I begin, then?"

"All right," I reply helplessly. Knowing I'll never be able to divulge an secrets relating to magic or the Realms, I wonder bitterly to myself if she'll take better to the fact that I have friends capable of killing wild animals with their bare hands, or that I've kissed an Indian boy – twice.

"Then I hope I am not incorrect in my impression that you are a difficult girl to shock."

I want to roll my eyes at her. Never in a million years could someone like Lenora Courtenay shock _me_, Gemma Doyle, who has seen all there is to see, and more.

When I do not protest, she continues. She is suddenly serious, all the girlish mischief gone from her face. "Miss Doyle, I am not who you think I am."

It's not what I expect, and I blink at her a few times. "I…see," I say noncommitally, suddenly prickling with scepticism.

"You musn't look so worried, Miss Doyle. I have no intention to bring harm to you or your friend the Initiate."

It takes me a second to realise she is referring to Kartik. I should be more shocked, but find that I have somehow expected this. I wonder if the magic has equipped me with some sort of sensitivity to my…well, peers.

"You are a member of the Order?" I ask, my voice wavering against my will.

She laughs softly. "Hardly. I am an independent, I suppose you might say. Though I have heard you've done a marvelous job of rubbing both the Order and the Rakshana the wrong way."

I don't know what to say. "How – but – well, they didn't give me a whole lot of choice," I conclude somewhat lamely, stumbling over my words.

"No…they're a troublesome lot, all of them. It's probably better that neither has power any longer."

I gaze shrewdly at her, trying to detect an ulterior motive in her wild golden eyes. "If you are looking for someone to take you into the Realms – "

"No, no, nothing of the sort," she hurries to assure me, shivering involunatily. "In fact, I'd be completely satisfied never to set foot in that place again."

I want to know everything and nothing, all at once. I still get the creeping feeling that Lenora Courtenay is not entirely on my side.

"What do you want?" I ask, in a tone that is most unhospitable indeed. She, too, seems to harden.

"Answers," she says simply. "And help, if I have any to offer."

"How do I know if I can trust you?" I ask, getting to my feet and fixing her with a mistrustful gaze.

Lenora returns it, standing so that we are eye to eye. "To start with," she says, her voice steady and soft, "I knew your mother."


	6. None of it is Easy

I regard her with total bewilderment, feeling the blood in my veins thicken with the magic as it responds to my shock. Is this because I feel threatened, or is the magic somehow reacting to Lenora's statement? I haven't the cloudiest idea what is going on inside me, which does nothing to help my already racing mind.

"That is impossible," I say, my voice stiff with forced calm. "My mother is dead."

"This is why I said 'knew,' Miss Doyle. Like I told you, I visited India once."

"So you knew my mother when you were a child," I conclude, trying to make sense of this woman, who is allied neither to the Order, nor to the Rakshana, who claims she is not my enemy, who says she knew my mother. So why can't I relax? I feel the hum of power fizzing beneath the surface of my skin, as if to remind me of its presence. It's the first time I've thought of the magic as a living thing, and it frightens me.

"No," replies Lenora, her hands clasped elegantly behind her back as if she's simply indulging me with the latest gossip. "No, I was eighteen when I met her. It's rather a long story –"

"Please," I say, my voice chillier than I had intended, "We have the time."

She fixes me with a sharp golden gaze; my indignation has been noted. "Very well, then we shall start at the beginning. You see, my father's father had no legitimate sons. Since he had no particular love for any of his daughters' husbands, he decided to adopt the only son he had – my father – as his heir. Now this was all very scandalous, you see. Not only was my father a bastard, but his mother was a Gypsy, and so my grandfather's wife was duty-bound to raise the boy as her own, so as not to disgrace the entire family."

"So you are not my cousin," I conclude.

"No, there is no blood shared between us, but I suppose that is neither here nor there. Anyhow, I wasn't introduced to my natural grandmother until I was newly eighteen, and by then the poor old woman had become feeble-minded to a point where it was difficult to have simple communications with her. It's little wonder, seeing as how she lost both of her children and spent her life in a forest. "

"I beg your pardon," I interrupt, "but you said 'both?'"

"Hmm? Oh, yes, she gave birth to a daughter after my grandfather took her son from her. From what I could gather when I spoke with the woman, the little girl wandered off one day and vanished. Before I could get any further with her, however, she started carrying on about a person named Mary Dowd, who I later discovered was your mother. And not without considerable effort, I assure you."

This story sounds far too familiar. The back of my neck prickles. Is she trying to trick me? "What was her name? Your grandmother, I mean." The question is useless, however; I already know what she'll say.

"Elena Petulengro. Sweet old woman, really. She fancied herself a fortune-teller, but she was too far gone to tell me what year it was, let alone my destiny."

I try to take all this in. Does she know? Does she know that my mother murdered her grandmother's second child? She can't possibly, though, not without the diary.

I stare into the distance, deep in thought. I haven't thought about Mother Elena in ages, not since the Gypsies left the woods near Spence. After the diary explained her part in the mystery that was my mother, I've thought of her as nothing but a mad – if pitiable – old bat. Yet there's something going on here, I know, because I no longer believe in coincidences.

"How did you find out about my mother?" I ask, thinking of how difficult it was for me, armed with my mother's diary, visions, and Spence legend to discover the connection between my mother and Mary Dowd. What dark corner might Lenora have possibly scraped the truth out of?

"Interesting story, really," she says, seeming to suddenly remember her tea. She drops in two lumps of sugar, stirring several times before continuing. "It turns out that there's more to Gypsy magic than I had once believed," she winks at me, "Besides, even madness can be cured by a good brandy."

Lenora goes on to tell me about how she dosed Mother Elena with brandy until she was fully inebriated, the drink loosening whatever hold sanity had on the poor old woman's mind.

"She seemed fond of her Miss Dowd, and told me that the girl had magic unlike any Gypsy conjuring. Then she brings out a tiny doll, like the poppets made by the savages in the West Indies. You know the type I mean?"

I nod, uneasy at the notion that Mother Elena was in possession of such an item. But of course; where else would Sarah have got one?

"It had several red hairs – precisely the colour of yours – wrapped around its neck like a collar. She told me that she found it after the fire at Spence, in the ashes. Though God only knows where it really came from."

I'm sceptical about Mother Elena's explanation of the poppet's origins, but as I do not care to entertain the idea that the doll might have easily belonged to Sarah, I say nothing.

"To put it briefly, she taught me how to use the doll as a sort of guide to its counterpart, and it lead me straight to your mother. Mind, it cost me a great deal of time and trouble to discover that she'd changed her name. I did find her eventually, however, and I'm sure you can imagine just how glad she was to see me at her doorstep, calling her Miss Dowd."

I can. It makes my eyes sting with tears to think of that shooting glare mother used to give me when I made her unhappy.

"What did you want with her?" I press on with a new thickness in my throat, still unclear as to how I and Miss Courtenay are connected.

"What else? Passage into the Realms," she answers flippantly, as if I ought to have known. "I will admit that I had a potent hunger for power of my own. I had done endless research on the Realms and the miracles said to be found there, and to be denied entry was unimaginable to me. With the Order in hiding, the magic caged, and your mother the last novice left to them, I decided she was my best chance at obtaining power for myself."

"But she couldn't! The Realms were sealed off, until – "

"Until you, yes, I know. She told me as much. But when I told her that the Gypsy woman was my grandmother, she suddenly seemed to want to help me. She told me that she felt as if she owed everything to Elena, and I was happy to take advantage."

_I_ know exactly why my mother would want to do whatever she could for Mother Elena's granddaughter. I can still hear the guilt in her voice. However, my mother's is not a secret that Lenora needs to know, and I will not be the one to betray it.

"Yet you said you'd been to the Realms. How?"

She sips her tea and shrugs delicately. "When you smashed the Runes, of course."

Though she is answering all my questions, I feel as if she's only making things more complex.

"You knew how to get in?"

"Your mother told me about the door of light. Though I expect at the time she didn't think I'd ever be able to make use of the knowledge. Or be able to use the magic to begin with. Though I do have Gypsy blood, I most certainly take after my grandfather's side of the family as far as magic is concerned."

I feel irrational jealousy at the fact that my mother taught a stranger how to enter the Realms, but never said a word to _me_ about any of it until she was dead. Yet I know the expanse of my mother's guilt, and I can understand why she wanted to give Lenora whatever she could.

"It's lovely at first, isn't it? I felt like there was nothing beyond my reach, like the world was mine to take if I so willed it. Power is intoxicating, is it not? I called it Eden, and I was Eve as she might have been, had she chosen beauty over knowledge."

"And yet you told me that you never wished to return," I say, knowing exactly how that feels.

"Yes, yes, I'm getting to that. But beauty is the ultimate deceit, is it not? 'Thou sealest up the sum, full of wisdom, and perfect in beauty. Every precious stone was thy covering: the sardius, topaz, and diamond, beryl, onyx, and jasper, sapphire, turquoise, and emerald with gold.'"

She waits, clearly expecting me to recognise her words. I shake my head to indicate that I don't understand.

"Thine heart was lifted up because of beauty. Thou hast corrupted thy wisdom by reason of thy brightness: I will cast thee to the ground.'"

When I show no sign of comprehension, she laughs softly and moves on. "It is a verse in the book of Ezekiel, in which God addresses Lucifer. My point is that my Eden in the Realms held the same fatal beauty as Satan, until I did not even realise the danger when it was upon me."

I am about to request that she make her point when her voice trembles and she falls silent, seeming to shrink slightly as she sits on the chaise at the foot of the bed.

"I can't explain exactly what it was, but when it touched me, I felt such a glorious rapture and such a terrible pain that I could think of nothing else besides. It let go and leaned over to kiss both of my eyes, and I swear I felt my skin stretch and tear to contain whatever it put inside me. Then it was gone, and from what I could tell, I was whole," she says these words with such torment in her voice, and she is no longer a stranger to me. We have both endured pain inside the Realms, and it links us; not a link so pleasant as sisters or even friends, but the way a soldier is linked to his fellows, by shared brutality and mutual suffering.

"And were you?" I ask gently, coming to sit beside her.

"Not entirely, no. My eyes…" She meets my gaze, her eyes glassy but dry. "I've always had my father's eyes. Gypsy-eyes, he used to call me, though I never understood the significance of the nickname as a child."

"They are quite unusual," I comment when she glances at me for a response.

"They are changing," she says, her voice intensely calm. "Do you see the silver ring that circle the pupil?"

I look for it, and as she says, in both eyes there is a thin band of silver surrounding the small black centre. "Yes," I answer. "Yes, I see it."

"It's been growing larger, ever since that last visit to the Realms. I fear I have been damaged, somehow."

"Is there anything aside from your eyes?" I ask, wondering what sort of damage could be done to a living person inside the Realms – I myself have never brought any physical injuries home with me.

"Nightmares," she says softly, pressing her fingertips against her closed eyelids. "I can't remember what happens in them, but I…hurt, afterwards."

"Hurt how?"

"My hands. I reckon it feels as if they've been boiled, or skinned, or some other such dreadful treatment. I have to soak them in milk for an hour before I can stand to use them again."

As if I wasn't already in over my head, now I learn that there is still evil lurking in the Garden, and it is taking an offensive tact. Moreover, something is happening to Lenora that I don't understand, that I doubt I can stop. Yet somehow, I know it is my responsibility to somehow fix her.

Lenora shakes her head, hard enough to undo her hair and send it into a loose twist over her shoulders.

"I am sorry, this is not where I meant to go with this. I came to warn you about this thing, lest you run into one. Not that I don't want to be your chaperone as well, of course." She smiles heartily, but the expression is so forced that I want to weep for its sadness.

She's lying, I know. Perhaps she did want to warn me, but she's really here because she thinks I will be able to heal her. She might not know that the magic is now bound inside of me, but she knows I am the only one with the power to reverse whatever was done to her in the Realms. I want to protest, to insist that I can't help her, that I can't even help myself.

"I'll do what I can for you," I assure her, touching her arm. "I don't know much, but – "

"It is enough," she says quietly, with a smile so full of trust that I can scarcely smile in return.

"Oh, I forgot," she says, clearly wishing to change the subject. "What about your secret?"

I look at her for a moment, and sigh. "Oh, yes. I've kissed an Indian boy," I tell her, not missing the irony of the situation. "Twice."

---------------------------------

Said Indian boy turns out to be very difficult to find, even with magic on my side. He has obviously gone to great lengths to hide, and I hope desperately that I will not give him away by visiting. But this really can't wait.

I give up on trying to sense him with my mind and start walking, praying that I am moving closer to him rather than farther. He has obviously made an effort to get out of my magical locating range, but I am confident that he has not left London.

My feet begin to ache after ten blocks, but I've finally sensed Kartik, though I haven't the first idea as to where exactly he might be. I notice that I've passed into the area that separates my area of London and the burrough of Whitechapel. While it is not the slums, it is seedy at best. I grimace, glad that I borrowed a frock from Catherine for this particular visit. While I am still in some danger travelling without male escort, at least I won't be robbed or kidnapped.

Walking cautiously, I finally feel something not unlike a prick, alerting me to the exact whereabouts of Kartik. I gape at the shabby building that the magic has indicated, wanting to run, cry, hit him, anything. A _brothel_. Why, in the name of all that is holy, is Kartik in a _brothel_?

I swallow, hard, wanting to do anything but what I am about to do. I firmly grasp the door knocker and let it drop, three times, against the brass backing. I hope I'll find him 'occupied,' so as to have a decent excuse for killing him.

A bony middle-aged woman with frazzled brown hair and a garishly painted face opens the door. She eyes me acquisitively, a nearly-toothless smile spreading across her face.

"You lookin' for a job, lovey?"

I bristle, wanting to rail her for such an insult, but I manage to respond coolly. "Not exactly. I am looking for a Mr. Kartik. Is he here, perchance?"

She looks heavenward, as if trying to remember. "Oh aye, a tall Indian bloke?"

"That's him," I say tightly, trying not to grit my teeth.

"Izee your 'usband?" she asks puckishly, allowing me to step inside.

"Fortunately, he is not," I grind out, my fist clenching and unclenching at my sides. Get a hold of yourself, Gemma. You have no claim on him. He's free to do as he likes.

But a _brothel_? Surely, surely he has a reason…but no. There is only one reason to be in a brothel.

"Right, well. This way, then." She leads me up a flight of stairs, and I try desperately to block out the revolting noises coming from the rooms upstairs. I shudder and feel sick at the thought that one of those men could be Kartik.

"There we are," says the woman, gesturing to a door at the end of the hall. "That's Mr. Kartik's room."

She leaves me, and I knock timidly on the door.

"Betsy, I told you _no_," comes Kartik's voice, and for some reason, I suddenly notice how lovely his soft Hindi accent is.

I don't know how to announce myself, so I turn the knob and walk in. There is Kartik, lying in naught but his still-fastened trousers on an undisturbed bed, thankfully, blissfully, beautifully alone. And furious with me, judging by the harsh look in his eyes.

I mirror the look, closing the door behind me and walking towards him. Kartik is also up, coming for me in long powerful strides, stopping at arms length. He begins to speak, but I beat him to it. I want to curse, yell, hit him. But my words come out soft, stiff and cold.

"If you have a reason for being here," I grind out, trembling with rage and hurt, "by all means, give it."

He seems to match my rage, his brown skin flushing with anger. I fix my eyes on his face, afraid that I'll lose my resolve if I see any more of his skin.

"I owe you no excuse," he growls, with all the kindness of a cobra. The smooth cut of his jaw seems to ripple as he flexes it, and I notice that the cords of his neck are taut with fury. "You, on the other hand, are very much out of line. My brother, your mother, they gave their lives to be sure that yours continued. You repay them by wandering into Whitechapel, unescorted, without telling anyone where you were going?"

His voice is rising, and I know it is taking all his strength to keep from shouting at me. I am not so successful at keeping my temper.

"I can take care of myself, you miserable sod! How dare you speak to me so – so – "

"Miss Doyle, you might think you know everything, but you are completely oblivious to what goes on in the real world. You might have had your throat cut, before you even thought to use the magic to defend you!"

He hisses a curse and kicks the bureau by the bed. I've never seen him express any emotion so openly, and I tingle all over with the thought that he fears for me.

"If it were up to me, I'd thrash you senseless!" he growls, stepping towards me until his height is more than a little intimidating.

My eyes go wide at this, and I instinctively step backwards. Then I realise that I should be most offended by what he's said.

"You _pig_! You make me sick! How dare you, how _dare_ you –"

He suddenly takes hold of me by the elbows, pulling me into him with an overwhelming strength. "No, Gemma, hush. Please, I am sorry. Truly, I am. But the thought of you putting yourself in such danger, when I had no idea –" He releases me and runs all ten of his fingers through his mussed curls, the blaze beginning to fade from his eyes.

"It's all right," I say softly, stepping towards him but not knowing how to offer comfort. "I'm sorry, too. But I wasn't harmed, and I promise not to be so thoughtless again." I add, in a small voice, "Please don't be cross with me."

He sighs and pulls me tenderly with a hand behind my neck into an unexpected embrace, gently pressing my face against the smooth, warm skin of his collarbone. Letting my inhibitions slide away, I curl my arms in and rest my shaking hands against his chest, too tired to think of propriety or the fact that I'm still angry with him.

It is silent for several moments, and I am soothed by the rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing.

"I'm not here for what you think I'm here for," he says quietly, his breath stirring the hair by my ear. I step back and search the deep darkness of his eyes, relief flooding me. He has an excuse, he's not here for prostitutes, it'll be all right.

"Betsy, the proprietor, agreed to lease me a permanent room in exchange for protection," he begins, using his horse-soothing tone again.

"Protection?" I ask, still a little incredulous.

"Without a man to keep the peace, the ladies are left vulnerable to the less reputable patrons. I provide security, and Betsy provides me a room. That is all," he says with a small smile of reassurance.

I nod slowly, comforted. "I'm sorry for jumping to the wrong conclusion," I say a little awkwardly as I notice the compromising position we're in. Not only are we alone behind a closed door in a brothel, but Kartik is in a state of dishabille, and I'm wearing far fewer layers than I'm used to in Catherine's dress. Kartik seems to notice my discomfort, and reaches for his shirt, slipping it on. He looks so very appealing in his half-buttoned shirt, the cuffs undone and the tails hanging out. I want to…but no. No. _No!_

We seem to think the same thought at once, and Kartik pulls me roughly against him, covering my mouth with his until I am nothing but heat and sensation, trying desperately to convince myself it's all so wrong when everything else tells me that it's all so right.

His hands are in my hair, removing pins until it falls loose down my back. I hear myself whimper softly, leaning into him; he is everywhere, his body pressing against all the right places, and I am filled with an exquisite relief. There is such a raw fervour between us that I can hardly breathe from the force of it. I weave my fingers into his beautiful curls, loving the sound of his soft groan when I tug gently.

_No-no-no-no-no_. Don't be stupid, Gemma. Don't be so senseless! This is all that will ever be between me and Kartik, this heat and wanting that is, above all things, most certainly forbidden.

But his mouth; the soft, full, perfect mouth, so artfully stroking my own until I fear I might come apart. Yet there is no safety here. This is not a dream, nor a vision or game.

His fingers are stroking the buttons that do up the back of my dress, and I feel one come loose. He didn't do it on purpose, I know, but it's enough to make me realise where this will lead if I do not stop it.

With a broken cry I pull back, unable to meet his eyes. "Kartik, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I don't know what's the matter with me –"

"It's all right," he says sweetly, leaning in to kiss me again. He smells like curry and soap and sweat, and it's all I can do not to simply give into him.

"We can't," I whimper, my voice small and shaking. This time, he doesn't persist. Instead, he pulls away and drops onto the bed, rubbing his face vigorously.

"I know," he says, voice low and husky. He throws up his hands. "I know!"

After several moments of silence he smiles ruefully at me, pinching his cuffs together as he buttons them. "You don't make it easy for a fellow, I'll tell you."

I look up at the ceiling for a moment, until the need to cry has passed. "None of it is easy," I reply softly, sitting beside him but leaving a safe distance between us.

His grin widens a bit. "We really must stop meeting in places like this," he quips, trying to lighten the mood.

I smile indulgently. "I quite agree. You really do choose the most unsavoury dwelling places, Kartik. Certainly we can do something about that."

"Yes," he says, a little more seriously. "Such as waiting for me to find you, rather than the other way around. Come to that, why _did_ you risk life and limb to seek me out this evening, anyway?"

"Oh, that," I mutter, having forgotten completely my original reasons for finding Kartik. "It just so happens that I just might have solved the mystery of Lady Courtenay. Though I don't think you're going to like it."


	7. Temptation

AN: Again, I must pay homage to all the wonderful people who have reviewed so far – it is more wonderful than you know to have a review waiting for me when I pop in.

Also, because I have been gaining a little more interest in this story, I'm somewhat rewriting the earlier chapters (1-5, at least). No big changes, I don't think, but changes all the same. Just so everyone is aware. :)

Thanks for reading!

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Kartik eyes me askance, as if he suspects me of being melodramatic. "Is that so?" he says absently, rubbing his middle and index fingers beneath his lower lip. "And just how _much_ am I not going to like it?"

I shrug, shifting a little to face him. "I suppose it could be worse," I say without conviction, fiddling with my bracelet. "She isn't a spy, at the very least."

He gets restlessly to his feet, shooting me a brooding glance as he fastens his cuffs. "Gemma – Miss Doyle," he says, his voice still the smallest bit gravelly. "Are you sure you can trust this woman?"

This suggestion catches me off guard, and I meet his gaze. "You know, I hadn't really thought otherwise. But she doesn't seem to have a reason to lie."

"People don't need reasons to lie," he reminds me, pushing a loose curl out of his eye. He turns his back to me, pulling his suspenders over his shoulders and fastening them to the front of his trousers.

"No," I agree. "She says she's been to the Realms."

He turns around to face me, a tinge of curiosity in his dusky eyes. "Does she? Is that possible?"

I shrug again, crossing my ankles and clasping my hands. "She says that when I – when I smashed the Runes, she was able to make the door appear and –"

"Door?" he interrupts, his long, nimble toes curling and uncurling against the cold planks of the floor as he dips his hand into the water basin set atop the bureau and passes it over his face. I find that my words are stolen for a moment as I watch the water drip off his chin and down his neck, seeping into the fabric of his still-open shirt.

"The door of light; it's how one enters the Realms. According to her, she was attacked by some sort of creature; she couldn't describe it, but she thinks it did her serious harm."

He shakes his head at me, wiping a lingering water droplet off of his jaw with the back of his hand. "You walked into a whorehouse to tell me this? Miss Doyle, you do know that I know nothing about the Realms?" he sounds frustrated, as if I make a habit of this sort of thing.

"Yes," I say quietly. "Yes, I know that. I just wanted someone else to know. It's a lot to handle, sometimes."

The look on his face softens a little, and he crouches down in front of me, his hands resting on my forearms. "Perhaps if you weren't so determined to bear the burden by yourself, it wouldn't be so difficult," he suggests gently.

"I don't know how to share it," I admit, trying to keep from fidgeting. "The magic is inside _me_. How do I share it?"

He looks down at my lap, his teeth set into his ripe bottom lip. "How did you get magic from the Runes?"

"We just touched them," I tell him with a one-shouldered shrug, "Now…I just don't know. I've never tried to give it to anyone else."

Suddenly keen to try, I grasp Kartik's hands in my own, concentrating. When he realises what I intend, he yanks them away.

"Gemma, _no_. It is not for me," he says. It reminds me of my mantra about him, and I frown.

"But Kartik, you _are_ my ally, are you not?"

He gets to his feet, as if he's fighting the urge to pace. "Yes, but…"

"Then perhaps it is time you saw the Realms for yourself?" I rise to my feet and follow him.

"No!" he says firmly, as if he is Christ and I am Satan, tempting him.

"Kartik," I say, just as firmly. "What are you afraid of?"

He fixes me with a brutal glower, then turns away. "I am not afraid," he insists, his voice suddenly severe.

"Kartik."

There is a moment's silence, in which neither of us is willing to speak.

"You oughtn't to be here," he tells me, attempting to forget the matter at hand.

Surprising both of us, I step forward and take the ends of his shirt between my fingers, buttoning it up to the dip in his collarbone. My fingers brush his neck as I straighten his collar and I see him swallow, hard. I can feel the spark between us suddenly rekindled, and I hastily back away.

"Very well. Then I shall leave," I say, knowing full well he won't let me go by myself.

"Don't be foolish, Miss Doyle. I shall drive you home."

It feels odd, being alone inside Kartik's hack with him just outside. His horse, an old nag that looks to be on the last legs of her life, is serene under his practised hand. Clearly, she trusts him. But of course – even during his short employ as our driver, I could see that he had away with horses. It is reassuring, to think that Kartik has a tender side.

He stops the hack a block away from my home and comes around to the door, offering his hand to me. I hesitate before taking it.

"Kartik?" I ask, watching his face in the moonlight. I've begun to think of the trouble I'll be in when I get home, and I can't help but want to stall a little.

"Yes?"

"Will you at least think about entering the Realms? That is…I mean, surely you are curious?"

He presses his lips together, not looking at me for a moment. "Of course I am curious, Miss Doyle. But one cannot always act on curiosity."

"Kartik," I say, very carefully. "You are no longer taking orders from the Rakshana, you know."

His hand drops back to his side. "Yes, thank you for that reminder, Miss Doyle. However, while it is true that I no longer owe an allegiance to the Rakshana, that does not mean I lose the necessity for caution."

I have never heard him sound so vexed with me, and I drop my gaze to my lap, feeling like a scolded child.

He grasps me by the upper arm and helps me down from the hack; when my feet reach the ground, I find that I am not only much closer to Kartik than is proper, but that he is holding me there.

"I need time to plan, Miss Doyle. That is all."

I squirm insentience, and he seems to realise how close we are. He drops my arm, taking a step away from me. "I must also apologise for my behaviour earlier. It was not my intention to…well…_maul_ you."

I stifle a smile. "Maul?" I giggle.

"Oh, shut up," he snaps, cracking a grin. "You really ought to get home. I'm sure your grandmother is worried out of her mind."

"Oh, pah. I'm sure the claret has made quick work of her by now. It's tomorrow morning I have to worry about."

"And your father," says Kartik, in the same cautious tone I used with him earlier. "Is he well?"

"Much better," I answer, smiling sanguinely up at him. "Thank you for asking."

He proffers his elbow and I accept it, allowing him to walk me into Grandmama's stable yard.

"I suppose I shall bid you a good evening then, Miss Doyle. Use caution with your houseguest, though, will you?"

"Yes, of course. I appreciate the ride home, Kartik, and I'm sorry for inconveniencing you."

His face seems to sober. "Ah, yes. Swear that you won't come find me alone again, all right? Rakshana or no, it is still my duty to keep you safe, and it doesn't help when –"

"Yes, all right," I interrupt, not in the mood to be lectured. "Stay in touch, please?"

He nods and turns to leave, though I can still feel his eyes on me when I step through to side door into the darkened kitchen. Sighing, I tiptoe out of the kitchen, one foot on the stairs when I hear Tom's voice call from the drawing room, his footsteps drawing near.

"Darling sister, where _have_ you been?"


	8. Heartbreak

AN: All righty, here's chapter 8. I have to go back to school on Tuesday, and classes start on Wednesday, so I might be a little slower on updates…but hopefully not. After all I'm only taking four classes this semester – oh how I love being an art major. ;)

I try to go back and thank everyone personally for their reviews, but sometimes I can't, so again, I thank all of my reviewers! I appreciate y'all so much. :)

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I freeze, my mind frantically searching for a story to feed Tom. Dread, frustration, and weariness douse my pleasant mood as I turn to face my brother. He has a strange expression on his face, one that I recognise as spiteful triumph, and it chills me. Tom is not the kind of man to fly into a rage – he hates confrontation of any sort. Instead, he seizes his opponent's weakest point and strikes at it, overcoming the opposition with a few well-placed words. His approach is much crueler, and I see no way out.

I have nothing. There is no legitimate reason for a tender maiden such as myself to be wandering the streets of London, unaccompanied in the dark.

Horror clutches in my abdomen at the unbearable possibility that he might have seen Kartik. But he can't have – Kartik never stepped out of the shadows. I swallow and struggle to give Tom an excuse that I do not have.

"Oh, Tom, darling, you gave me quite a fright! You're up awfully late," I say sweetly, my voice sounding as light as my head feels.

Tom will not be put off, however. "Answer me," he demands icily, glowering at me with my father's cool blue eyes.

"I – I was having trouble sleeping. I just went out for a breath of fresh air." It is a flimsy story, but it's the best I have. I have a feeling I will need to go on the offensive very soon, and I'm not sure I can do so without alerting the entire household.

"_Rubbish_." The word comes out of Tom's mouth in a serpentine hiss, and I unconsciously shrink back. "You are in full dress, and what's more, in the maid's clothing. What errand, pray tell, requires you to dress in rags?"

I had forgotten all about Catherine's dress. _Stupid, Gemma, stupid!_

"I – oh." My voice shakes badly, and I swallow. "Well, you see –"

"No, don't answer. I won't get the truth in any case, that much is clear," he cuts me off, the malice in his eyes replaced by what appears to be regret – or even sadness. I can see that he is planning his attack, and I drop my chin to my collarbone, knowing that silence is my only option. "You've finally succeeded in disgracing this family, Gemma, after years of trying. Sneaking out to see a man, before you've even had a season? This will break Father's heart, you know."

My head snaps up, and I stare wide-eyed at my brother. Oh, God, how can he know that? How did he see? Even if he were looking out the window, we were completely hidden from view. Surely, he is bluffing.

But it's his last comment that really stings. I remember my grandmother's words last Christmas, and tears gather in my eyes. _Don't break his heart, Gemma._

_Don't break his heart._

_Don't break his heart._

I do not need this. The guilt is so great that I lunge at Tom, hating him for his words, for his cruelty, for his idiocy. Stunned, he grasps me by the shoulders and tries to push me back, but it doesn't keep me from raising a hand to weakly slap his face. Tears spill down my face, dripping off my jaw and soaking into the lace collar of Catherine's dress.

"You have no right – _no right _–"

"Gemma! Hold yourself together, will you? Go to bed, and we shall discuss this in the morning."

"You can't tell Father, you _can't_!"

"We shall discuss this in the morning," he repeats harshly, putting his hands in his pockets and nodding to the staircase. I no longer have the strength to argue, so I go upstairs, feeling wretched. My eyes burn with tears, and I suddenly want my mother back so badly that it takes my breath away.

In my room, I rummage through my cupboard until I find a shift of Mother's that I smuggled from her chest after the funeral. I get a whiff of the material and I can't hold back the small sob that escapes me. It smells like _her_, not like the rosewater but the way she smelled when she embraced me, when she rocked me to sleep; a mélange of peppermint soap, rosemary, and tea leaves. I remove Catherine's frock and slip into Mother's shift, imagining her tucking me into bed, caressing my hair, humming a lullaby that would inevitably cause me to remind her that I am not a child any longer.

I am lucky. My mother was given back to me, if only for a short time. I was able to set things right. I imagine the guilt I might be feeling now, had I not been able to apologise for my behaviour that day in the bazaar. How miserable I would be, if my last words to her had truly been, "I don't care if you come home at all!"

It seems a lifetime ago that I turned sixteen. I've changed so much since then, or at least, I feel that I have. Sixteen, when things were still innocent – if hostile – between Kartik and me. Sixteen, when visiting the Realms was like slipping in and out of heaven. Sixteen, when Pippa was still alive, when Ann still had hope, when Felicity still felt powerful, when I still had faith in the Order.

How things have changed. What an encumbrance it is, this business of womanhood! Had I known, I might not have wished so desperately for it.

I do finally drift off to sleep, though. My dreams are bizarrely fragmented. First, I see an image of Kartik's face, but something's wrong with it, and I cannot determine what it is for a moment. Then his face becomes clearer, and I realise he is a little boy, probably not four yet. He is a beautiful child, his head riot of black curls, his round umber eyes bright and clear.

It is near dusk, and he is on a beach, piling sand into a large mound and shrieking with laughter as the waves lap at his feet.

"Maa!" he shouts joyfully, and I understand enough Hindi to know that he's calling for his mother. I can taste the salty sea air that plays in the hair of the young woman who steps out of the hut, opening her arms and reflexively lifting him onto her hip. She has a quiet, unpretentious beauty to her, and her full mouth mirrors Kartik's. As she brushes the sand off of his feet, she speaks to him in Hindi, and I can pick out the words "man," "take," "Amar," and "Rakshana."

There is suddenly a profound grief in her eyes, and I cannot help but weep as little Kartik wriggles out of her arms and runs back to a battered cricket ball lying near his sand pile. I can see in her dark eyes how she fights against it, how desperately she wishes she could accept the destiny that will befall both of her sons.

Suddenly, the scene begins to grow dark; the last thing I see is a man bearing the skull-and-sword, leading the child Amar out of the house by the hand. Little Kartik watches them ride away, his small mouth falling into a frown. The sea licks at his ankles, but he does not laugh now. The ball drops out of his hand, and he breaks into a run, crying, "Amar! Amar!"

But now I am in the Realms, running across the meadow with the Kartik I know now close behind. I cry out with merriment, just before his arms close around my middle and we both tumble to the ground.

I am laughing and he is laughing, a sound so rare and pleasant that nothing can go wrong as long as I can hear it. He moves off of me and rolls onto his side, propping his head on his fist. How beautiful he is when he smiles! It is a smile that cannot be faked by any illusion, no matter how powerful the magic.

"Is this my dream," he begins, his breathing a little laboured from chasing me, "or is it yours?"

"It doesn't matter," I answer, reaching over to push a curl out of his eye. His long, sooty lashes brush fleetingly against his cheeks as I do. "You're here. Isn't it lovely?"

"Mmm," he assents, watching my hands as I pluck a wildflower then wrenching away when I try to tuck it behind his ear. "Careful, Lady Whatsit. If you make me smell like flowers, I'll have to soak both of us in mud."

I roll my eyes at him. "Then I'll make the mud smell like flowers, too," I say, sticking my tongue out at him teasingly.

His humour suddenly changes, and his eyes darken with an emotion I cannot name. "You are much too forthright, Miss Doyle."

There is no warning when he pounces on me, pinning me to the ground with his weight and kissing me soundly. There isn't a single thought of resistance in my head as I gently rake my fingernails over his scalp, arching toward him until I coax a soft groan from his lips.

"Let's stay here forever," he says softly, dipping his head to press a kiss to my jaw.

I smile obligingly. "Why?"

"Because here, you are mine," he murmurs quietly, as if unsure that he wants me to hear these words.

He leans down to kiss my eyes, but when I open them, he is gone.

Now I am in the empty stall in Grandmama's stable, inside which there are hushed feminine sobs coming from the dark corner.

"Hello?" I call softly, unable to see much in the blackness of twilight.

"Oh, Gemma. Thank the Lord." It is Lenora's voice, tight with panic.

There is movement in the dark corner as she stands, the murky moonlight offering little in the way of illumination. It is her eyes I see first, reflecting in the dark like a cat's. They are fully white-silver now, glimmering like faceted diamonds as they move towards me.

She steps out of the stall into the stronger light, and I take her in, my mouth going dry. Her expensive Venetian gown is muddied about her knees, but she is otherwise spotless in the moonlight. She wears nothing in the way of jewellery but for that tarnished silver ring, her pale skin an eerie grey in the darkness. The gold in her hair is gone, and her curls are now so straight her that her hair is like white silk.

"Lenora," I gasp, the anguish in her eyes making me want to run and embrace her. But there is something so intensely frightening about her that I cannot move. "What has happened to you?"

She begins to weep again, holding her hands to me. I did not notice before, but now I see that they are covered in horrible oozing boils, as if they have been cooked. I want to vomit, but there is nothing in my stomach.

"It is coming for me," she whimpers, her voice almost entirely unrecognizable. "I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry, Gemma. So sorry."

She begins to blether, and I fear she's gone mad. "Not nightmares. Oh, _God!_ Not nightmares at all. Ah, my hands, my hands!"

I shush her. "I can fetch some milk, if you think it will help," I offer, feeling rather useless. The magic, Gemma, you fool! "Oh! I mean, let me try to –"

"No!" she cries. "You mustn't touch me." One of the boils suddenly splits open with a revolting _pop_, and she moans in pain.

"You might have saved her, had you not been so preoccupied with balls and gowns and men," says a soft, sweet voice behind me. I turn and there is Kartik, but it isn't him who has spoken. After that first glance, I hardly see him, for standing beside him is something so beautifully revolting that I am frozen in both wonder and terror.

I understand now, why Lenora could not describe it to me. It has dewy grey skin, so smooth and shining that it might have been solid metal if not for its fluidity. Its arms hang to where its knees should be, bifurcated at the ends like serpent tongues. Its eyes, like silver fires, are the only facial feature it posesses, the rest of the humanoid head clear and hairless. I gag, wanting to flee, to call out to Kartik, to anyone. This is no Winterlands beast – it is something far more powerful.

"You have been most helpful," it says in that same sweet tone, though I can't tell where the voice is coming out of. Suddenly, everything, everyone, is gone. The street lamps have gone out, the house is suddenly dark, and the perpetual noise of the city is utterly stifled.

I have a sudden, outrageous thought, as one does in dreams, that I have simply gotten lost, and I need Tom to come tell me how to get home.

"Tom! Tom, you must help me! Tom! Oh, God, please, Tom!"

"Be quiet, will you!"

My eyes spring open, and I am safe in bed, with a bewildered looking Tom standing over me, holding his candle up to my face.

"What in blazes has got into you?" he demands, and I can tell by the roughness in his voice that I have woken him.

I shiver, my skin coated with cold sweat. "I – oh, Tom, I'm sorry," I say mildly. "I had a bad dream."

He looks concerned for a moment, and then sighs. "I understand that this is a taxing time for you, Gemma, and I realise that I was harsh with you earlier. But even with Father on the mend, I am responsible for this family, and I cannot have you slipping out of the house on your own, whether you need fresh air or not."

I nod, wishing I could tell him the truth. I pull up a memory of our childhood, when I was eight and he eleven. I was ill and confined to bed, and he spent all day picking flowers to bring me. They were mostly weeds, as I recall, but I couldn't have been happier with them.

"Yes. I am sorry for it," I tell him, wondering when that affection had been lost between us.

"You need sleep. Isn't Miss Worthington coming to call tomorrow?"

I had forgotten, but he is right. My heart feels a little lighter, knowing that I'll at least have Felicity back. I nod to Tom, lying back down.

"Get some rest," he tells me, leaving the room and closing the door softly behind him.

I try to, but every time I close my eyes, Lenora's glittering silver ones are waiting for me. And all I can hear in my head are her pleas. _Help me, help me, helpmehelpmehelpme._


	9. An Issue of Trust

AN: This isn't much of a chapter, and I apologize for it. I just wanted to update, so everyone knows that I am still around and I plan to continue with this story. I promise a much longer update ASAP! Thanks to all my reviewers!

Felicity sweeps into the foyer like the queen herself, the fresh violet silk of her new Parisian gown gracefully hugging her neat figure as she embraces me.

"Gemma, darling, I've missed you so!" she sighs, stepping back to look me over.

"And I you," I reply, with a little less enthusiasm. "We need to speak in private."

She gives me a sour look for my ill manners, but dutifully follows me into the parlour and takes a seat as I close and latch the doors behind us.

"Oh, dear," says Felicity, suddenly noticing my unpleasant expression. "Has something gone wrong?"

"Not explicitly, no," I reply softly. I suddenly lose myself and collapse beside her on the chaise, my eyes welling with repressed emotion. "Oh, Fee, I'm so glad you are home. Things have been rather rotten without you and Ann."

Felicity looks suddenly concerned. "My poor darling," she murmurs, hugging me close. I feel relief touch my throbbing fear as she comforts me, and I allow a few tears to slip down my cheeks. "Has anything happened to you?" she asks, giving me a final squeeze before sitting back.

"Not yet," I tell her, wiping my face dry. "I am sure you've heard that the Lady Lenora Courtenay is staying with us."

"Yes, I had heard that," says Felicity, looking politely interested. "Is she a pleasant woman?"

"Oh, stop it, Fee."

"What?"

I shake my head and ignore the question. "She's been to the Realms. She says that something attacked her there – something I've never heard of before."

The colour drains out of Felicity's face. "Pippa," she whispers, covering her lips with white-gloved fingers.

"Don't be stupid," I chastise, though the same thing has crossed my mind more than once. "If Pippa has indeed gone to the Winterlands, she has no power to leave as long as the magic is bound. In any case, I am positive that it was never a creature of the Winterlands to begin with, the way it was described it to me. Anyhow, I haven't been to the Realms since the last time we were together, so I am treating both magic and Lady Courtenay with extreme caution."

"And what about your Indian boy?"

I sigh unconsciously at the thought of Kartik. "He is in hiding. The Rakshana are hunting him relentlessly, so he has not been around as often as I would like."

"Pity," says Felicity softly, her mind apparently elsewhere.

"Oh, Fee, what am I going to do?"

Felicity pretends to think about it, but I can see that she already knows how she will reply.

"Now this is only a suggestion, Gemma," she says softly, taking my hand and holding it on her lap. "But have you considered contacting Mrs. McCleethy?"

I get quickly to my feet, pulling my hand away and turning to face my friend. "Felicity, you know that she is not trustworthy! She is in league the Rakshana, or did I forget to mention that they meant to cut my throat?"

"You trust Kartik," replies Felicity, her cool blue eyes narrowed. "I do remember you mentioning that it was _his_ task to do the cutting."

"He wouldn't have done it," I insist. "He betrayed them for me, did he not?"

"Only after he was forced to tell you the truth! Only after he was forced did he choose you, knowing full well that you had power and the Rakshana did not! How can you even know that he has truly left the Rakshana, that helping you escape them was not simply new ploy designed to increase your confidence in him?"

I watch Felicity coldly, biting back a furious retort. Indeed, I have no material proof that Kartik is loyal only to me. I would like to think that I do not need it.

"I trust Kartik," I say with soft ferocity, inviting no further argument from Felicity. I had expected her to support me in this; I never dreamed that she'd try to influence my decisions. She's only trying to help, I suppose.

"Then I am having a lot of trouble understanding, Gemma. I thought our task was to restore the power to the Order and to rebuild what once was. Instead, we are all powerless now except for _you_. You talk of how we cannot trust the Order, we cannot trust the Rakshana, that their hunger for power will destroy us. So tell me, Gemma, how we know we can trust _you_? Because it would seem to appear that you have the same hunger, and that you've done nothing with it to assure us that you are a worthy vessel."

I feel crushed, defeated, abandoned. One of the few people I can count on is Felicity, and here she is, turning on me.

"Fee," I whimper, feeling very small against her stony gaze. "I won't be able to bear it if you turn on me too. I am barely keeping my head above water as it is, and I need you. Please,"

A sudden pity springs into Felicity's eyes, and her anger seems to evaporate as she rushes to embrace me again. "Oh Gemma, dear, darling, Gemma, forgive me. It is taxing, to have the knowledge of power but to be unable to posess it. I would never turn on you, never. I am sorry for challenging you, I didn't mean a word of it."

This is comforting, but I cannot forget the hard look on her face, I cannot forget that somewhere deep inside, she mistrusts me.

"Let's just forget all this. Tell me more about Lady Courtenay and her monster."

I obey and forget the spat for the moment, telling Felicity what Lenora told me, as well as an edited version of my dream last night. As I do, I cannot help but think: _I am only as strong as my allies. Who can we trust, if not each other?_


	10. Seeing is Believing

AN: I come to you grovelling miserably, because it's been an inexcusable amount of time since I last updated. I don't even want to do the math. This story has constantly been in the back of my mind, but things like work, school, and sleep keep getting in the way. So here I am, feeling very sheepish, with an update. I hope it sounds believable and in character and all that, though there's sure to be a little discrepancy seeing as I haven't read the books since February. So forgive me if I'm a little off. I doubt it'll be worth the wait, but I hope you enjoy it anyway. :)

A huge thank you to all my wonderful, beautiful, amazing reviewers…you guys are the greatest. Please continue to let me know what you think! (my nice, polite way of begging for reviews, lol)

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Felicity listens patiently as I tell her what I know about Lenora's ordeal. I can see the wheels turning in her head as I speak, and I pray that she's working up a plan for us. Sure enough, she springs into action the moment I conclude the tale.

"Do you know, I'm beginning to think it's high time we paid Ann a visit. My aunt and uncle own a summer home in Brighton, and I'm certain they'll allow us to stay there, but –"

"Not without an escort," I finish for her, hopes sinking a little. "That necessary evil."

We are both silent for a moment, mulling over what is to be done about an escort. Suddenly, Felicity's head comes up. "How utterly foolish of us! We've forgotten all about Lady Courtenay. Surely she will accompany us?"

"Yes, of _course_," I agree, my tense muscles slackening as a plan begins to take shape in my mind. "The Charitable Ladies are holding a whist drive two weeks from now to benefit army widows or something like that. My grandmother will be more than thrilled if I took an interest in volunteering. If Lenora agrees to come, Grandmama cannot possibly refuse."

"Perfect, then it's settled. I will arrange for us to stay at Firle and you will inform Lady Courtenay of our scheme. Send word when everything is in place," says Felicity, her pale eyes lit with excitement. I am also having trouble containing myself; the thought of the three of us being together again, without Mrs. Nightwing, Grandmama, or Tom hovering over us, is nothing short of thrilling. It makes the idea of assuming my role as Most High much easier to swallow. _Allies_. I might be the keeper of all the magic in the Realms, but without my friends I am meaningless.

Grandmama sends me to bed the moment Felicity leaves, claiming that I've been yawning excessively, and I don't get a chance to mention the whist drive to her. I have no energy to argue, and once Catherine undoes my laces, I fall into bed without even bothering to change into a night rail. I drag myself up to put the candle out, but before I can, I hear a rustle that most definitely is not the wind.

"_Gemma_," I hear a low hiss from the other side of my bed, and Kartik's hand claps over my mouth just in time to contain my startled screech. I wrench away from him and snatch my bed linens up to my chin.

"What in blazes are you _doing_ here?" I whisper fiercely, glaring at him in disbelief as my face grows hot with embarrassment. Of all the nerve, to sneak into my bedchamber! Then again, I think wearily, it is a trick he's pulled before.

"Looking after you, as usual. I overheard you and the blonde one. What is this nonsense the two of you are plotting?" He demands firmly, as if I am the intruder in _his_ home. I leap furiously out of bed, swiftly tugging my dressing gown over my sheer chemise, completely mortified.

"You, sir, are a boor," I grind out angrily, my fists clenched into tight balls at my hips. "How dare you presume –"

"Gemma, honestly," he cuts across, clearly having no patience for decorum. "Our lips have met in a gypsy camp, in your grandmother's stable yard, and in a whorehouse. Must you continue to insist on modesty even when we're alone?"

My jaw drops at his bold words. So much for pretending those kisses didn't happen. "You speak as if we're secret lovers," I grumble ill naturedly, pulling my gown more firmly around myself as I glare at him. "When that is surely the farthest thing from the truth."

If my words have stung him, he gives no outward sign. He simply smiles brashly, sitting presumptuously on my bed.

"Were you going to tell me?" he asks, ignoring the rage that continues to contort my features.

"About what?" I demand, crossing my arms over my chest.

"Running off to Brighton."

"Of course I was. It would have been a trick indeed, seeing as you're so difficult to get a hold of these days. But yes, I planned to tell you, and no, I was not going behind your back. The whist drive is not for two more weeks, Kartik. Now if that is all you were after – "

"It isn't," he interrupts again, holding my gaze with a new, unreadable look in his eyes. There is a long pause before he continues. "I want you to take me there."

I look at him strangely. "To Brighton? Can't you get yourself there?"

"Not to Brighton," he says softly, and I realize with a gasp of shock where he means.

"The Realms?" I venture cautiously, hardly believing my own ears. He gives me one firm nod, and I can see in his eyes how difficult it is for him to ask for this. All of his life he has been told that the Realms are forbidden to him, and to go there now is to officially declare his separation from the Rakshana. I bite my lip, his eyes conveying his struggle so vividly that I can nearly feel it myself.

"I'm ready," he states simply. His eyes hold mine captive, daring me to deny him. Instead, I reach out.

"Give me your hands," I command softly. He obeys, his hands firm and warm as his fingers clasp mine.

I take a moment's pause, swallowing, realizing that this is the first time I've tried to enter the Realms in quite some time. Not only that, but it is the first time I've ever attempted to bring a man in. And not just a man, but also a member of the Rakshana. Could I still somehow be refused entry, regardless of my new power? The thought of failing Kartik now, when he had finally reached out, was unimaginable. This was _going_ to work.

"Did it – " Kartik starts, growing impatient.

"Hush!" I silence him, taking his hands more firmly in mine. I shut my eyes tight and concentrate fiercely, clinging to Kartik's fingers tighter than is probably necessary.

I open my eyes, and there's the door. It gleams brilliantly in the dimness of my room, and I tell Kartik to open his eyes.

He lets out a soft gasp of surprise, reaching up to touch the impossible door of light.

"This way," I instruct, only releasing one of his hands in order to enter.

The garden is pristine, colourful and thriving just as paradise ought to be. I look over at Kartik, who keeps a firm grip on my hand. "Just as I dreamed it," he whispers breathlessly. "Amazing."

"You've dreamed of this place?" I ask curiously, looking up at him. An inexplicable blush fills his dark face, and he refuses to meet my eyes.

"I once dreamed that you brought me here, to this garden. We were in that meadow over there, and I remember you threatening to make the mud smell like flowers. Stupid, really," he mutters, looking as if he regrets mentioning it.

It's my turn to blush as I stare slack-jawed at the ground. "You didn't want me putting flowers in your hair." The words come out before I can stop them, and I am utterly mortified. Could it really be possible that we had experienced the same dream? The horrifying thought crosses my mind that if it _was_ possible, how many of my other dreams had we shared?

He looks at me strangely. "How – " He pauses, appearing to draw some conclusions. "It was _your_ dream? _You_ put that dream in my head?"

"Don't be stupid," I protest, scrambling to send his reasoning in a different direction. "I couldn't have possibly, I don't know how – "

"I'm not saying you did it on purpose," he chuckles, seeming to take great amusement out of the situation. "Just that you _did_. How else would I have been able to see this garden, you little witch?" He lets out a loud bark of laughter, and I scowl at him. As if this isn't shameful enough, he has to laugh at me?

"Stop that! I didn't – it wasn't – " I protest desperately, my voice cracking a little.

"Don't look so bashful, Gemma. This is wonderful!"

"I can't see how," I grumble bad-temperedly, unable to look at him as tears of shame blur my vision.

He seems to finally notice that his laughter is upsetting me, and he reaches over to take my face tenderly between his hands.

"Look at me. Look at me, Gemma," he commands gently, wiping a stray tear from my cheek with the pad of his thumb. "Don't you understand? You are so vexing, my girl. All this time, I've been so confused, so sure that you have feelings for me only to turn around and have you say something so – _so_ – and I am crestfallen, but – _your_ dream! I can't – I must –"

And he kisses me, bold as you please, taking my mouth as if it has always been his to take. I am too shocked to react for a moment, trying to process his uncharacteristically excited outburst at the same time that he is slipping his tongue between my startled lips.

His arms come around my waist and he pulls me fiercely against him, and suddenly it is nothing like our other kisses.

I feel an explosive thrill rip through me as Kartik displays an expertise I never dreamed him in possession of. His body presses into mine like hot steel, making me feel delightfully small and feminine. His fingers tangle into the hair at the nape of my neck, driving me closer as his hot mouth plunders my own, his free hand clever and sure on my back. I should stop this, but I need him so very badly that I can hardly comprehend my own command to pull away. I am totally at his mercy, and I pray that he has a heavier hand on his self-control than I do. Flashes of old dreams well up in my mind, and I moan in distress at the rousing images.

"Oh, God, this cannot go on," Kartik gasps against my skin as his mouth moves to my neck, pressing his tongue against my pulse.

"No," I agree, but my voice is little more than a whimper.

"I can't – we can't – this mustn't - " he is muttering without any sign of slowing, his soft, moist mouth moving madly over my throat as I cling to him helplessly. If I had known it could be like this between us, perhaps I would not have had the power to resist him for so long.

Somewhere in my passion-muddled mind, I hear a noise that makes the blazing heat in my belly go cold. A rustle. A giggle. So quiet, so easy to miss.

I wrench violently away from Kartik, my mind going blank with panic.

"Gemma, what – "

"Quiet!" I snap desperately, and he seems to catch on. We are both frozen, trying to get our bearings, and I feel utterly ridiculous for letting my guard down so carelessly.

"Hello there, pretties," comes a soft, sugary-sweet voice, though I cannot see its owner.

It's coming for me. I'm such a fool!

"Gemma, _move_!" Kartik demands, hauling me towards the door. I don't remember how. He lifts me bodily and carries me with incredible speed towards the door. He flings it open and we are through, safe in my room. I am gasping, shivering, my mind racing to process what we have just so narrowly escaped. The terror I feel is palpable, as well as completely irrational; I realize that whatever that thing is, it radiates fear.

I can't think, I have to think. I cling to Kartik, and he holds me in return, breathing heavily and seeming just as tongue-tied as I am. I breathe carefully, steadily. My heart slows to a more natural rhythm. I collapse against Kartik, and he staggers, barely managing to keep us upright.

In all my muddled thoughts, one blares to the forefront, demanding my full attention.

_Never, never, never. I can never go back._


	11. Beasties

AN: Again, a ridiculous gap between updates. I appreciate those of you who continued to leave encouragement even though I hadn't updated in months! It's because of you folks that I actually stirred up the energy to punch out a new chapter. Y'all are great.

Let me just say up front that I know this isn't much of a chapter, and I know how much it sucks when you've been waiting on an update for a long time and it fails to deliver. But don't worry! I plan to come back very soon with a 12th chapter in which stuff happens. I just really wanted you guys to know that I hadn't forgotten about this story, but I really don't have it in me to crank out a serious chapter tonight, and I was afraid if I put it off it wouldn't happen at all. So forgive me, and keep your eyes peeled for another update soon!

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Several minutes pass before Kartik pulls back and looks at me. The panic in his eyes frightens me more than the monster had, for I have never seen Kartik show anxiety so openly.

"Are you all right?" he asks, his voice a gruff half-whisper.

Though not completely certain of my answer, I nod slowly and heavily, loosening my hold on his forearms. "Are you?"

He ignores the question, his manner uncharacteristically jumpy and nervous. "Did you see it? Did you see what it was?"

I shook my head. I hadn't seen anything. But the overwhelming fear projected by whatever it was still coursing furiously through me. I tremble uncontrollably, my knees soft and unsteady. I feel weak, nauseated, anxious. I can't shake it off, no matter how many deep breaths I try to take.

"Do you think it was the creaure Lenora spoke of?"

That is something I _am_ certain of. "Yes. I haven't a single doubt that they are the same. The fear…the creature created that fear. It has it's own source of power. I…bloody hell, what am I…" I trail off, suddenly short of breath, not wishing to further ponder what might face me next.

I am shaking, shivering, longing to wake up from the nightmare. Now safe in my bedchamber, the fear begins to ooze out of me like tar, slowly and thickly. I gradually begin to feel lighter, calmer. Yet I don't lose the sureness that I never, ever want to set foot in the Realms again. I am just a child. I can't face that creature again. I can't do this anymore. I want to rid myself magic entirely, to crawl beneath the blankets on my warm, safe bed and never resurface.

I feel like such a coward that it makes me sick, but I have no more energy for bravery. I fall into Kartik's arms and weep quietly, not bothering with propriety or courage or strength any longer.

He strokes my hair as my tears dampen his shirt, his body still somewhat tense. "Not just fear," he murmurs after some time, pulling me closer. "Utter despair. Do you not feel it? I feel as if I want to crawl into a dark corner and die."

I realise that he is right. Oh, God, what have I come up against? How can I battle a creature that inspires so monstrous a fear and so deep a despair that it brings its enemies to their knees? And surely those were not the only powers it posessed. Certainly it is hopeless. Certainly I can do nothing.

Though I can barely sum up the energy to do so, I use a little bit of magic to push the creature's power from our bodies. The change is excruciatingly slow, but soon both of us straighten, as if a great weight has been lifted off. I feel a warmth cross over my face as I begin to realise how improper our embrace is – and how very little I care.

"Well," sighs Kartik, his voice considerably brighter. "It wasn't all I'd expected to be. But certainly worth the trip."

"How can you say that?" I demand, amazed that he can still have a sense of humour. "We barely escaped with our lives!"

"Precisely," he answers, his fingers absently tracing the line of my collarbone. "We got a glimpse of the adversary we face, but escaped mostly unscathed. Besides, the visit wasn't all bad."

He is smirking, and it irks me that he can be so light-hearted about what just happened. Then again, he is not responsible for whatever havoc the creature wreaks.

"Oh, Kartik, what am I going to do?" I sigh, my voice shaking as my hands fist into the muslin of my gown. I am still overwhelmed by the urge to simply give up. After all, I didn't _ask_ for this to happen to me.

"We will go to Brighton as planned. We will meet with your friends. All of us, for we are now a collective. We must be united from the start."

"And then?" I press, needing some comfort, some assurance that this will have a happy ending.

"And then," Kartik echoes, and I know by his long sigh that I'm not going to like his answer. "We are going about this too blindly, Gemma. We need information. We need help."

I hold his gaze, daring him to say it. His eyes don't wander from mine as he speaks. "We cannot avoid them any longer. We must make contact with the Order."


	12. A Little Bit of Hope

AN: All right, folks, here is a significantly longer chapter in which…well, a few things happen. There was too much transitioning I had to write until anything serious happened, so expect some real events in the next chapter. But at least I actually updated in a timely manner this time! Yay me!

As always, thanks to all of you who have taken an extra moment to leave a review. It means more than you know:D

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"Don't be a fool, Kartik," I say, immediately dismissing the idea. "They'll have a dagger in our spines at the earliest opportunity."

"Considering our options, that one is probably our most favourable," he replies gravely, squeezing my left hand tightly between his. I conclude that he must be crazy.

"Forgive me, but I favour the option that keeps us _alive_ the longest," I respond irritably, my words accompanied by no small amount of sarcasm.

He sighs and scratches the back of his neck for a moment, choosing his words with care. "You must remember that, as Most High, you are making decisions for more than just yourself."

He is right, but the comment stings me. As if he is accusing me of being selfish for not jumping at the chance to sacrifice myself. "How does meeting an early end at the hands of corrupt, power-hungry witches in any way further our cause? Besides, I thought you were supposed to protect me, not feed me to the bloody wolves." I snatch my hand out of his, realising that I'm acting childish but not bothering to try and compose myself.

He notes my tone but refuses to respond in kind. "Do not turn this into an argument, Gemma. I would _never_ deliberately set into motion a series of events that could lead to your death, and you _know_ that if we ever found ourselves in a moment that insisted on it, our enemy would be forced to cut out my heart before I failed to defend you."

The heaviness and intensity of his voice, coupled with his fervent vow of allegiance sends shivers skittering over my skin. I pretend to be untouched, not wishing to reward him with the knowledge that he got to me. I do, however, soften my tone considerably. "Then I don't understand, Kartik. How is putting our lives in the hands of the Order our most favourable option?"

"There are ways of getting information without putting ourselves completely into their hands," he explains, giving me solid eye contact. I wonder how much of this he has already planned without me.

"You think they will bargain?"

"You alone hold the power to grant them access to the Realms. There are no ways around it. They cannot cheat, sneak, or trick their way in. _Of course_ they will bargain."

But I don't want to bargain. I don't want to have any contact with the Order, not ever. Of all the unknowns in my life, they are probably the largest. I fear what they will do to me, what they will do to my friends, to Kartik, to the world, in order to get what they want. It is still amazing to me that they haven't so much as tried to approach me in the months since I turned my back on them. Surely, if they were able, they would have smothered me in my sleep by now.

Kartik is waiting for me to respond. When I don't, he immediately seeks to reassure me.

"Gemma, _you_ are the one with the power here. Without the magic, without _you_, they're nothing but a band of helpless old hags."

"Why not just kill me and rebind the magic? That's precisely what they'll do the moment they get the chance. The moment we approach them, surely!"

Kartik shakes his head. It's becoming clear that he's given this topic far more thought than I have. "If it was that simple, why have they let you live this long? It is not as if you've been in hiding. They've had thousands of opportunites to strike at you, and have taken none of them. Clearly, killing you is not the solution. Clearly, they haven't the first idea of what's to be done with you."

I mull this over. It's true that the Order has been eerily silent since my last encounter with Miss McCleethy. What had her last words to me been? Something about not letting go of their power so easily. But it seemed that they had done just that. I had always taken for granted the confidence that they were simply biding their time, planning an attack. But what if that was not the case at all? What if they had no course of action to take?

"How will we contact them? How can we even know if they're feeding us reliable information? If Miss McCleethy is any exemplar of their credibility, there's no limit to they tales they will spin simply to reach their objective."

"We will determine that later. For now, we need to see your friends. To determine how deep their loyalty to this New Order lies. Then we can sketch out a plan."

I nod, accepting this for now. All I know is that something must be done, and quickly. I haven't the most primitive concept as to what we are up against, but I have a very strong feeling that it is larger and nastier than anything we have come up against before.

He leans in to kiss me. It is a tender, thoughtless kiss, as if we have sharing such kisses for years.

"I have faith in you," he tells me resolutely, and I realise that these are exactly the words I need to hear.

"Thank you," I whisper, unable to resist the need to embrace him. He pulls me in tightly, so I'm snug against his firm warmth. Such a simple thing, and yet I am so entirely consoled by it. I begin to have hope. I can do this. We can do this. And we might just come out of it alive.

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The ride to Brighton is bumpy and endless, despite the privelege of using Lady Courtenay's fine coach. Her ladyship has somehow managed to fall asleep beside Felicity, who occupies the seat opposite me. Felicity seems bent on having a conversation, but I am so sick with the jerky movements of the coach that I'm afraid to even part my lips. She sits primly in her chicory-blue carriage dress, a matching cape knotted delicately at her throat, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Her face, however, is remarkably less composed as she glares peevishly at me.

"You're awfully quiet, Gemma. Surely you have more to say about this encounter of yours," Felicity presses, her tone decidedly hostile.

"I'm nauseated," I mutter glumly, feeling my stomach lurch with the effort of speech. I clamp my lips together and squeeze my eyes shut, my arms draped protectively around my stomach.

Felicity is unsympathetic. "Certainly you can magic away a silly little stomach ache, Lady All-Powerful."

I probably can. But I've promised myself I will not use my power for frivolous things, and I've adhered to that promise as best as I can. Not trusting my stomach enough to open my mouth again, I simply shake my head at her. She collapses back against her seat, making sure I know she's cross with an unseemly huff.

The next hour of the trip passes in relative silence. I wonder how Kartik will find his way to Brighton, and how long I'll have to wait until he joins us there. I find myself missing his company, his warmth and safety. Although, to be certain, I would have been horrified to have him see me in such a state.

I turn my thoughts elsewhere, thinking of Ann, of how wonderful it will be for the three of us to be reunited. I have been alone for so many months that it will be a much welcomed relief.

Miraculously, I begin to feel myself drifting off to sleep. I receive it happily, glad to leave the sickness behind in the world of the conscious.

But sleep does not bring the respite I expect. I am immediately pushed into a vivid dream, where Miss McCleethy is clutching me from behind, twisting one of my arms cruelly behind my back, pushing me towards the terrifying silver beast that I have dreamt of before.

"Take her! Take her now!" screams Miss McCleethy, forcing me closer to the the thing. Her strength is only slightly superior to mine, and I know that with just a few more jerks and twists, I'll be able to escape. "She's yours, you must take her, quickly!"

I thrash to get free, but am suddenly laden with such an intense hopelessness that I can hardly breathe. I seem to know at once that this is the creature's power, the ability to affect my emotions so entirely, and yet I have no energy to fight it. I sob, longing for death, longing for it to end. I can think of nothing but the desolation that consumes me.

The creature approaches me, its forked arms winding around my body and holding me firmly in place. Miss McCleethy is nowhere to be found as it reaches down to press its chin into both of my eyes, as if in some crude mockery of a kiss. I scream again but cannot move until it releases me, fading away with something not unlike a snicker echoing in its wake.

I snap violently back into consciousness, my stomach boiling at the images from my dream.

"Tell him to stop," I croak urgently, reaching for the door. Felicity acts quickly, wrapping sharply on the roof until the coach comes to a complete halt. I burst out of the door, barely making it off the road before I'm gripped by a spasm and begin to wretch uncontrollably.

I should feel shame for such a display, but there's nothing but a terrific fear churning through my body as I spit the last of my stomach's contents onto the leafy forest floor.

Lady Courtenay approaches after a moment, placing a reassuring hand on my back and kindly offering a canteen of water to me. I swish around a mouthful of the cool, clear liquid and spit it out as delicately as I can manage, the fear sliding away. It is replaced by a somewhat shaky resolve, an acceptance of what must be done, and a confidence in it's achievability.

"Are you all right?" asks Lady Courtenay, supporting me with an arm around my shoulders as we walk back to the carriage. All I can do is nod in response. My stomach is still a little weak, but much improved. And I find I'm not as afraid as I was before.

The remainder of the journey passes without incident, and I feel well enough to divulge the rest of my tale, leaving out, of course, the more personal moment shared between myself and Kartik. Felicity listens intently, her demeanor remarkably softer, perhaps feeling guilty for her earlier treatment of me.

"I think Kartik may be right," she tells me once I've finished. "Getting information from the Order may be our only chance to survive whatever battle awaits us in the Realms. Will you try to reach Miss McCleethy?"

I know that Felicity has always harboured a soft spot for Miss McCleethy, particularly because the woman played expertly to Felicity's greatest weakness – her pride. I, however, have no desire to reveal even the notion of weakness to Miss McCleethy – as far as I was concerned, the woman was a snake.

"I don't think so. She and I did not part on the best of terms."

"Then who?"

That is something I don't have the answer to just yet. I should be able to locate members using the magic, but selecting someone I can trust will be far more complicated. Especially because I suspect that such a person does not exist.

"We shall see," I answer, knowing it will irk Felicity that I appear to be keeping her in the dark. She need not know that I am in just as much darkness as she is.

--------

Felicity's aunt and uncle's house in Brighton is a magnificent, sprawling, Elizabethan manor. I suspect that it is probably a bit too extravagant for a country home, but that was not my place to judge.

All three of us are escorted to our own private suites, and I am at once assured that we'll all be very comfortable for the duration of our stay. My chambers consist of a small but smartly decorated parlour, a bedroom, and a private water closet. I feel pity for Kartik, who will probably be forced to take up residence in another godforsaken hell hole. He would never complain about it, but I do wonder if he ever tires of being homeless. Surely he must.

The lady's maid has just begun to unpack my belongings when Felicity steps into my parlour. She is already out of her carriage dress, now wearing a promenade dress of hunter green satin. I deduce that she's going for a more conservative look, but I can't imagine why. It wouldn't be like Felicity to dress in such a way without a good reason.

"I've sent a footman with a calling card for Ann," she announces, sitting on a loveseat upholstered in delicate pale pink satin. "I've requested that she receive us at her earliest convenience."

"I'm sure she would do so anyway," I reply, wondering what it will be like to meet somewhere other than our cave. It seems appropriate, as everything else about the Realms has become disillusioned.

There is an extended silence, one that I intend to let Felicity break. I do not have the patience for social niceties just now, and if Felicity insists on maintaining them, she will be the one to do the talking.

"Gemma," she begins, her tone cautious. "Gemma, I have begun to notice that you've been distant with me lately. I can sense that things are not what they once were between us. Are you angry with me?"

I cannot help but wonder if she's trying to mend bridges merely because she knows that staying in my good humour is her only link to the magic. Yet I have always know that Felicity has alterior motives for being on my side. She is my friend, and I trust her, at least for now. It would be most ungracious for me to cause her undue anxiety.

"No, Felicity, I'm not angry. I just have a lot weighing on my mind. I'm sorry if I have been short with you. There has just been so much to process over the last few days."

Felicity nods, staring for a moment at her gloved fingers."We'll find a way, Gemma. We always do, don't we?"

For the first time in a long time, I allow myself a smile. "You're right about that."

Another silence, smaller than the last. Again, Felicity breaks it. "When is the Indian boy arriving? Did he tell you?"

"The Indian boy's name is Kartik," I correct her crossly, my brows narrowing. "I will not hear of you treating him with contempt, Felicity. Now that we are joined in this cause, he is our equal in every way. If I witness you disrespecting him –"

"For goodness' sake, Gemma, I had only forgotten his name! I intend to treat him just as I would any other man," she replies defensively. I am not completely reassured. If her treatment of Ithal is any indicator of how she treats men, she might very well have a lesson to learn. After treating Kartik so horribly myself, I will not allow anyone else repeat my inelegances. I will watch my friends very closely for signs of bias against Kartik, for he is the truest ally I have.

After all, I am still very much in debt to him.


	13. Fearsome Foes

AN: Hi everyone! It's been a while, hasn't it? Like, a LONG while. I thought I'd drop by with a chapter that's been sitting unfinished for a year at least, since so many of you have been kind enough to review and ask for an update. I can't promise that I'll ever finish this story, but I will promise to leave a new chapter whenever the mood strikes! Thanks again to all my faithful readers! I apologize for the shortness/lack of interesting occurences in this chapter. I'm posting a new chapter for "If Love Was Enough" shortly also, so hopefully that will make up for it. Enjoy!

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"Ann, darling, you look lovely!" exclaims Felicity, exchanging a dainty embrace with our friend and dropping a fleeting kiss on her cheek. "How dreadfully long it's been!"

Ann smiles cheerfully, stepping away from the coach so the footman can close the door behind her, and exchanges a similar greeting with me.

"You can't possibly have missed me as much as I've missed you," she says, grinning conspiratorially up at Felicity's aunt's estate. "Good heavens, Fee, this place is simply palatial! It wouldn't happen to have any caves on its grounds, perchance?"

Felicity heaves an exaggerated sigh as we begin make our way up to her rooms. "Tragically, no. Although if we're crafty, we might manage to sneak off to the beach in the dead of night. Perform some run-of-the-mill satanic rituals and the like."

Ann starts to chuckle, but seems to think better of it and a sudden sadness pulls the sides of her mouth downwards. "Not me," she murmurs, her voice suddenly dull. "Lady Fenwick could never manage the baby on her own overnight, she would never allow me a vacation on such short notice. And sneaking away is pointless – as soon as the baby begins to cry, my absence will quickly be discovered."

"Don't you have friends on the staff?" I ask, trying to be helpful. "Can't someone cover for you, just for a few hours so we can have some time together?" I have been suddenly struck by the reality that just because we are near Ann, it does not mean she can be with us. I realize I had been depending on our reunification to set some sort of solution into motion, and it is now clear that things won't be nearly that simple.

"Gemma, the consequence is hardly worth such a risk. If I am caught, I will never work as a governess again; Lady Fenwick will make sure of it. I will be forced back into the employ of my cousins, who, judging by our last communication, will be positively gleeful at the opportunity to send me to debtor's prison."

"Oh, Ann," I murmur sadly, though I had anticipated her reply. I feel angry, at Ann or God or perhaps Fate, for turning all that gives me hope into dust.

"We will think of something," says Felicity, determined to play the optimist. "Come, let's not be so glum. We have the present, don't we? Ann doesn't have to report back until nine o'clock, so let's make use of the time we have."

Ann nods and we enter the rooms that have been alotted to Felicity and me for the duration of our stay. I am silent for a time, respecting Ann's turmoil. In many ways, her decision is more difficult than my own – to risk everything she has in the real world in order to devote herself to the interests of a mystical world where she will never have any real power, only that which is rationed out to her by me. Unlike Felicity, Ann does not operate on the premise that, once the fight is over, the magic will be rebound and she will receive power of her own. Ann aids me because it makes her part of something bigger, a place where she is somebody, a place where she is well-connected with its only wielder of power.

I should have seen that, now that we face a battle we have so little chance of winning, her attachment to our cause will waver. She will do what she can to help, but she will always make this choice. Protecting her life here will always matter more than protecting the Realms. Yet how can I blame her? Her destiny is not tied to Realms as mine is. I should set her free, not resent her because I was never given that choice.

I reenter the conversation as Felicity is saying, "Oh, but Ann, we _need_ you, truly we do."

"No," I say softly, wondering if I'm doing the right thing. Wondering if unbinding Ann will cause my entire little force to unravel.

"No?" snaps Felicity, looking sharply at me.

"Ann, Felicity, I cannot ask either of you to put your lives in danger to destroy a creature we may not even have the power to destroy. I need both of you to know that you are free to walk away at any time without surrendering an inch of honor or courage. This is my battle, and I cannot expect - "

Ann rises to her feet and interrupts me. "It is not your battle, Gemma Doyle. We discovered the Realms _together_. We explored them _together_. Just because you're bloody Chosen One, does not mean you have to act noble and forge on alone. My current occupation may complicate things, but when the time comes to choose, I _will_ choose the Realms, Gemma. Not the Fenwicks."

I am surprised by the ferocity of her words, but it does not make me any less relieved to hear her words.

"Yes, all right. All right. Thank you," I whisper, denying the tears in my eyes. "Thank you, Ann."

"No need to thank me," replies Ann, some of her good cheer returning. "I'd rather face a terrible beast in the Realms than surrender the remainder of my youth to that terrible beast the Fenwicks call a baby."

We chuckle at her joke. Personally, I would take the Fenwick baby over the Realms creature anyday. Perhaps Ann will change her mind once she has met the thing.

"Yes, shall we try to conduct some research on our fearsome foe?" asks Felicity lightly, attempting to whitewash her eagerness to get down to business.

"I thought we'd wait on Lady Courtenay. And I invited some...others," I reply, mimicking Felicity's frivolous tone.

Both of my friends' eyebrows raise a couple of notches. "Others?" Ann inquires.

"Well. Just Kartik, really."

"Of course," replies Felicity, making no attempt to hide her distaste. "Delightful."

"Felicity…" I warn. I will not tolerate her attitude.

"What?" she replies defensively. "I simply miss the days when our ranks were strictly female. I believe there was a reason the Order kept the Rakshana out of the Realms."

"Yes, Fee. It was the Order's greed that kept the Rakshana out. I will not commit the same injustices. I trust Kartik implicitly, and that should be enough for you." I sound angier than I actually am, but I am tired of being doubted. Felicity will either learn her place or lose it.

"Fine then. Join me in the library when the others arrive," says Felicity coolly. She rises and swiftly leaves the room, leaving Ann and I alone.

"We shouldn't be fighting," Ann says quietly once Felicity is gone.

I sigh softly. "No," I agree. "We shouldn't."


End file.
